A Calculated Life (25 page)

“Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone realized what you were doing.”

“You won’t mention anything over dinner?”

“Of course I won’t, Julie.”

And with that, Julie turned to leave. She hesitated and appeared to speak to the door. “I’m not going to sing any more. I’ll keep away from the karaoke.”

“I’m beginning to feel like a human guinea pig with all these menu changes,” said Lucas over dinner.

“They don’t use guinea pigs anymore,” said Jayna tersely, “but the phrase has stuck.”

“If you said that in parts of South America, Lucas, they might misunderstand. Guinea pigs are a delicacy. They would think you were making some reference to cannibalism,” said Harry. The small group of friends threw glances at one another but appeared unable to propel the conversation on guinea pigs any further. They returned to their meals.

Why had Lucas used such an archaic phrase in the first place? Jayna was frustrated with him. And what exactly did he imagine he was if he wasn’t a human guinea pig? He just didn’t see it. But maybe he could be pushed from the straight path, she thought, if he stumbled across a set of circumstances, if he found himself in a certain place at a certain time, if someone said a particular something or if he was subjected to a specific physical experience. It was feasible that a combination of such incidents could launch an uncharacteristic and original thought. All her friends might come to their senses, eventually. Maybe the revelation, if she could call it that, had simply come to her sooner rather than later.

The subject of Veronica had been exhausted on the way home from the Repertory Domes and no one was eager to resurrect the discussion. Julie kept her head down. It was Harry who opened a new conversation: “Jayna, what about the enclave. How did it go?”

She refocused. “It wasn’t exactly what I expected.”

“More surprises?”

“What do you mean,
more
?”

“Well, you were surprised by your afternoon at Benjamin’s.”

“You’re right…I can say this much: I think I’ve learnt something this weekend, Harry. Information is not the same as knowledge.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I thought I knew a great deal about the enclaves—when they were built, who lives there, demographics, how housing policies have changed, transport links, employment statistics—but it doesn’t amount to much. There’s a gap, you see. A shuttle timetable doesn’t
tell you, for example, that the carriages are uncomfortable. You only gain that knowledge by taking a shuttle journey.”

“Was that the main surprise?” asked Julie, making an effort to join in.

“No.” She forced a smile. “It was the enclave itself. It was so basic, so drab, nothing remotely like the suburbs. And yet…bustling with life.”

“More so than the suburbs?” said Harry.

“I didn’t see anyone walking around in Benjamin’s area. I expect they were all indoors or in their gardens. But in the enclaves accommodation is cramped. They don’t have private gardens and there are no open spaces for recreation as far as I could see. Everyone seems to be in the street. And the streets are so dusty. Another thing…there are no shops as such. They buy everything at market stalls. I didn’t realize that. Do you see what I mean? I knew the breakdown of business types based on the traders’ licenses but I didn’t realize they operated from makeshift tables set out along the streets and—”

“If yer want yer lemon tart,” shouted the canteen assistant from behind his counter, “yer’d better get up ’ere fast. It’s startin’ t’look a bit sad.” They looked at one another and pushed their chairs back. Jayna didn’t get up.

Once they returned to the table Julie picked up the conversation again: “It all sounds chaotic in the enclaves.”

“It’s full of life, that’s for sure. Children kick about in the streets enjoying themselves. But if their surroundings were a little more pleasant…” She wasn’t going to tell them about the fight.

“We don’t believe at our department that—”

“Yes, I know you think they have a fair deal, Harry. I came away feeling, apart from anything else, they didn’t have much opportunity to better themselves.”

“Do they want to?” asked Lucas.

She wasn’t getting the reaction she wanted at all. “Of course they do.” She leaned back. “They’re not morons.”

Julie and Lucas looked alarmed. “They may not be,” Harry intervened, “but it doesn’t necessarily follow they want more. They get a good deal and they know it. You know it.”

“It’s not really a question of getting more. Maybe the state should…back off a bit. Stop pigeonholing everyone. Just let them breathe a bit.”

They gawped at her. She stood up and raised her palms towards them. “Look. I’ve had a very tiring day. I’m obviously not explaining myself very well. Let’s talk tomorrow when my head’s clear.”

Jayna leaned back against her door and tapped her head backwards. “I’m the moron,” she murmured. Five days more…And, as if one anxiety naturally spawned another anxiety, she felt a shiver of concern for Sunjin. He hadn’t
been
to the enclaves. He was nowhere near as street-wise as he’d like to think.

Tomorrow, she would download all the data she could find on Enclaves W3 and W8, GPS data, plus all the timetables, route-planners. “And what about you?” she said, peering at her stick insects, which hung from the top of the mesh cage. “Who’s going to look after you?” She sprayed a mist of water across the vegetation and she smiled. Breaking the rules was something they had in common.

Dollo’s Law of Evolution: Complex structures cannot return to a condition seen in an ancestor; a law overturned by the humble stick insect. Even when stick insects lose their wings during their evolutionary history, they keep the genes for making them. They have lost and regained their wings several times over the millennia.

She made a plan for her little friends: stock up on greenery during the coming week, pick up a business card from the florist and leave it by the cage. Julie would see it.
Yes, I expect you’ll end
up with Julie…And all the data I’ve collected, it would be a waste. Perhaps I should send everything to Bangalore.
But she dismissed the idea. There were too many other things to think about. She set out the new ground rules: no unnecessary conversation with anyone at C7 or at work, take the usual route to the office, feed the pigeons after work, no contact with Dave, absolutely none. And she meant it this time. She’d send a bland report to Benjamin and Olivia on her trip to the enclave making non-committal comments but giving the impression that further research might not be worthwhile. Then Olivia might step in and encourage her to drop the whole thing. And, reluctantly she would concur, but she would ask to keep the file open for future investigation. Then, everything calm on the surface, she and Sunjin could set out separately, on Saturday, as easily as she’d visited Dave.

The lights faded. She dressed her wooden chair with her clothes. As she floated towards sleep, sometimes dipping under but then resurfacing, she saw a long ticker tape. It swirled in eddies. Words were handwritten along the entire length:
leaves on a tree like sticks on a twig like clothes on a chair like leaves on a tree like sticks on
…At last, she slipped below the surface and drowned into sleep, into a dream that served, as ever, to purge, shuffle, and juxtapose the day’s events, before spewing crazed stories that, surely, she could never have imagined in waking hours. She was in a field. From a tangle of vines that towered above her head, Jayna tore over-ripe, rotting, and distended fruits. She discarded them all. Her feet slid on the mush as she pulled, arching backwards, for hours it seemed. All night. In her dream she wanted vine leaves for her insects. She had to have them. Her arms were lacerated and she tried to shout:
Where are the leaves? There are no leaves
. But the words would not leave the back of her throat. They could not reach her straining mouth.

CHAPTER 16

A
percussive sound—a door had hit its jamb
, or a window had struck its frame. It broke her dream. She woke with her mouth still straining and she knew she had tried to shout out. Relieved to be awake, she pushed herself up on one elbow and for a few moments felt the lacerations on her arms. She raised herself to her feet and felt an urge to swill her face for she wanted to wake up fully—the dream might otherwise keep its grip. But before she reached the sink she registered (a) faint, untidy noises somewhere within the rest station and (b) the gritty sound of footsteps outside. Too early for the recycling gang; Monday wasn’t their day anyway. It was curiosity rather than concern that prompted Jayna to move towards the window.

On the corner of the street, on the opposite pavement, stood a bald-headed man in neat, dark clothing. He looked along Granby Row, first in one direction, then the other. He turned 180 degrees and stared directly at the rest station’s side entrance, below and to the left of Jayna’s window. Why would he look over here, she wondered? He twisted back and waved, striding out into the junction. Waiting for a lift? It was an odd, in-between place to arrange a pick-up. She checked the time: 06:58 hours. Her jaw ached.

The slight sound of a vehicle. It swung slowly round and pulled up by the side entrance. The man ran from the junction and opened the rear passenger door. She pushed her face against the window
to see more. A familiar sound: the side entrance doors being unlocked and opened, but thirty minutes earlier than usual. A shuffle of people, two men and between them a smaller…“Julie!” Jayna raised her fists and banged against the window frame. They eased Julie into the back seat—she didn’t struggle—and the vehicle rolled quietly away. Jayna’s eyes burned down the empty street. Was her mind playing games?
Did Julie really twist around? Did she? Did our eyes meet?

Was it the singing? They didn’t like the singing? Or…the email to Sunjin? He didn’t delete it? Did he report her?
Jayna lifted her hands to cover her face, to hide from premonitions.
Too late. I’ve said too much. Julie won’t think to keep quiet.

But Jayna had already focused on the important fact: the side entrance was unlocked. She began to pull on her clothes. The streets and the Southern Terminus would be quieter now than in an hour’s time; too quiet maybe.
And, Sunjin! What about Sunjin?
Surely he hadn’t reported Julie? No…she couldn’t believe that. By the time she’d fastened her shirt she knew exactly what to do: leave the building, cross town, intercept Sunjin on his way to work.
Then I’ll make a run for it, mix with the rush-hour workers. Then the alarm will go up. Damn it!…I’m never late for work.

As for Sunjin, she thought, he’d have to decide for himself—make a dash, or tie up those loose ends, leave later in the day. She pulled a casual top out of her wardrobe, a top she wore off-duty, and stuffed it into her bag. She took a piece of paper, wrote the name of her florist, scribbled a list of plants. Ridiculous, but she still added,
Say Jayna sent you
. And left it by the cage. She picked up her bag but returned to the list. With pen on paper, poised to offer a final few words to Harry and Lucas, she hesitated—one second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds—and gave up. Her pen left a faint dot of ink, a mark of her indecision. She added two similar dots alongside and hoped her friends would recognize this failed attempt to explain.

She opened the door by a crack and listened…A few sounds, distant clattery noises reduced by each intervening wall and floor to a less peaky sound but nevertheless telling her that preparations were underway for breakfast. Lights-up in twenty-five minutes, breakfast starting in forty-five. She could slip out now without meeting any residents. And so, with a few steps along her corridor and her descent of the side staircase, a short walk across the ground floor hallway and down the side-entrance steps, she put rest-station life behind her. How many times had she made this journey from her room to the pavement? Yet today, simply because she made the journey earlier than normal, because her teeth were unbrushed, she was not simply leaving but running away.

The street seemed unfamiliar because of the hour. She welcomed the cool, fresh air that helped her to focus, kept her alert. She heard the gasping breaths of a jogger pounding the opposite pavement. A single piece of paper jumped and stumbled along the gutter in the early breeze. She conjured a mantra to keep her pulse steady—
walking this street, breathing this air, walking this street, breathing this air, walking this street
—which forced an easy pace that somehow shielded her as she crossed Oxford Street and descended the steps to the canal.