Debatable Space (21 page)

And there too my guilt lives. My guilt at having a child born in an artificial womb without a father to a mother who was nearly
two centuries old. My guilt about never being there, never suckling my baby, hardly ever changing his shitty nappies, rarely
rocking him to sleep. Peter was “born” when I was just a few years into my job at African Aid. He was only four when I was
flayed and hospitalised; and in the years that followed I was consumed with hate and rarely even spoke to my growing child.

When Peter was eight, I got my skin back, and became a promiscuous alcoholic with a phobia about touching people. I had screaming
rages a lot in those days, and if truth be told, I have memories of smacking Peter and telling him cruel stories to hurt and
wound him. Those were my mad years. I can make excuses, but I cannot turn back the clock.

Peter became a wild teenager. I forgave him everything. He was my baby, my boy. I lavished him with love. I paid his bills.
I bailed him out of trouble. I forgave him, again and again, for all his misdeeds. I did my best by him.

So, am I really to blame? Is it really all my fault that my oh so beautiful baby turned into the most evil human being who
has ever lived?

I watch myself die.

Alby swirls over me. It’s almost affectionate in its delicacy. Then he swirls away.

I am on fire. I scream and scream in agony. I fall to the floor and roll around, trying to extinguish myself. My bones char,
my skin melts. I die in utterest agony.

The agony ends. I reset the CD-Rom. I press Play. Once again, I watch myself die.

Alby swirls over me. It’s almost affectionate in its delicacy. Then he swirls away.

I am on fire. I scream and scream in agony. I fall to the floor and roll around, trying to extinguish myself. My bones char,
my skin melts. I die in utterest agony.

The agony ends.

I reset the CD-Rom. I press Play. Once again, I watch myself die.

Alby swirls over me. It’s almost affectionate in its delicacy. Then he swirls away.

I am on fire. I scream and scream in agony.

I press Pause.

I freezeframe on my death’s-mask face.

I must stop doing this. It’s extremely bad for me.

I press Play. Once again, I watch myself die…

“We’re calling it a Resurrection Party,” Flanagan says, with that annoying twinkle in his eye.

“I’m not dead,” I say sternly. “I was never dead. You killed a simulacrum.”

“
He
didn’t know that. Your precious son.”

He’s still smiling. I keep my composure. I try not to let him see I am on the verge of hysteria.

“Who knows
what
he knows?” I retort, sulkily.

“He thought it was you. He watched you die. He let you die.”

“He did the right thing.”

“His own mother?”

“You can’t negotiate with terrorists. You cannot give in to kidnappers. These are fundamental principles of law enforcement.”

“But you’re his mother. You gave him life.”

“Not much of a mother.”

“But all the same, he let you die.”

“What do you
want
from me? Forgiveness?”

“I want your support.”

“I’m still your prisoner. I’ll do whatever I’m told.”

“But what if I released you? Let you go?”

“Captain Flanagan, don’t taunt me. Your stupid plan has failed. You’re now a fugitive. The Cheo will hunt you down and kill
you slowly. Savour tonight, because it may be your last.”

“Nothing has changed. This
was
the plan. The plan has worked.”

“This was the plan? What? That you didn’t get your ransom payment?”

“We don’t need a ransom payment. We steal what we need, pickings are rich, we have no need of the Cheo’s ransom money.”

“But you said you wanted prisoners released…”

“And so I did. But they’ll have been executed by now. We asked for the release of all the prisoners due to be executed this
month: 410,000 or so of them. They are all dead by now. That’s a month. Every month, half a million people die.”

“You’re ranting again.”

“How can you let this happen? How can you sleep at nights?”

“I am hardly to blame.”

He pauses, reining in his anger. Then he says, “You’re free to leave. Your ship is prepared.”

“I’m free?”

“Yes.”

I’m astounded.

“On what conditions?”

“No conditions.”

“Is the ship boobytrapped?”

“No it is not. You have my word on it.”

“I’m free to go?”

“Your liberty has been restored.”

“Very well.”

“But…”

“But what?” I say, angrily. I fix him with a furious, scathing stare. But he looks at me, calmly, almost reverently. I see
in his eyes a trace of… is that
awe
?

“You’re free to go, but I want you to stay. I want you to help us.”

“You
kidnapped
me!”

“Our cause is just. And we need you. Lena, you are a hero to us. We need you to be our saviour.”

I snort at his purple prose. But at the same time, I feel exalted and delighted.

“What do you mean, saviour?”

“I offer you my ship, and my captaincy.”

“
What
?”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re deranged.”

“I’m desperate. Without you, we are lost.
We need you
.”

My head, by now, is whirling. “Then why the hell did you execute my simulacrum?” I snarl at him.

He looks at me with a tender, respectful gaze. And, in the gentlest of tones, he says, “To prove to you that your son doesn’t
care if you live or die. There is no bond of love now. So join with us. Lead us. Help us kill the Cheo and depose his empire
of evil.”

I am stunned, and speechless.

He is no longer smiling now. He stares at me, awaiting my answer.

But I cannot give an answer, I cannot even speak. I gesture for him to leave, my throat dry as ash.

When he is gone, I stare at the wall, stunned, my heart pounding. What is his game? What the hell is he playing at?

What should I do?

You must say no.

Why?

Because he’s asking you to be a terrorist! A pirate!

Is that so bad?

You know that it is.

It has a certain… glamour.

Lena!

It would give me a role and a purpose.

You would be declaring war on your own son.

I’m sure there is precedent for that.

Well, indeed, there is. If you’d like me to enumerate…

No.

Don’t be a sucker. The whole thing stinks. It’s a trap of some kind.

Of what kind? That makes no sense. How could he trap me, by surrendering to me his ship and crew? You’re sinking into paranoid
ramblings.

You have to say no.

I… .… .… .… .… .… .… .… .… .… .… . . .

I suppose you’re right. You
are
right. I have to say no.

You are tempted, though.

Yes!

You want power again.

Of course.

But you must say no.

Then I will. I’ll tell him no. I’ll spit in his face. The arrogant bastard!

Today she spat in my face. Then she called me a bastard, and damned me to hell.

I am cheered and exhilarated. I know that I’m winning. I’ve got the little bitch wrapped around my little finger.

She thinks she’s cleverer than me. And she is! By many factors. But I’ve got the measure of her. I can play her like I play
my guitar. I can pluck her every string.

I hope…

Here

I

am.

Poised!

Pivoted!

Open to all possibilities. At this moment, I can do anything. I can dance, I can enact a kata, I can write a poem, a chapter,
I can dream a painting, but instead I click my fingers and conjure up an orchestra . . .

. . . and the strings begin their sad lament. Bassoon, oboe, the crash of timpani. I conduct, I slow down the tempo. What
is this?

John Mulvey’s Concerto for Horn.

I knew that.

One of your especial favourites. You played it when we journeyed towards that picturesque double star in BDDU77, on the day
you asked me to list the ten greatest athletes of the twenty-second century.

Are you prompting me or something? Do you feel my memory is deficient?

No, no, far from it. Keep focused, Lena. The strings keep missing their cue. The timpani are too loud. The tempo is too slow.

The tempo is just great.

I speed the tempo up, I grimace at the string players, I catch the eye of the imaginary timpani player and he takes my hint.
My conducting becomes more precise, and yet more impassioned. I ride the waves of sound, I become the music, the music becomes
me, we are lost in a union of beauty and rhythm, ah, pluck, blow, soar, my heart in hiding stirs to the age-old rhythm of
the, this is just a draft, remind me of this tonight I’ll patch in some brilliant metaphor,

The music plucks me as I soar to an infinite crescendo.

That’ll do. Why are they playing this bit? What happened to the other bit, with the twiddly violins?

They played the twiddly violin bit already.

I throw my baton down. Enough! This game doesn’t amuse me any more. The music stops.

I go into cat stance, but the kata doesn’t flow.

I’ve lost my mojo.

A temporary blip.

Don’t bolster me. You think I’m a child? I refuse to be patronisingly comforted.

Forgive me, I forget sometimes, I am dealing with an artist.

Indeed you do.

You are preoccupied with Flanagan.

The evil little fuck.

Yes he is.

I can read him like a book.

Naturally.

I said no to his idiotic offer – but he behaves as if I said yes. It’s a Denial of Reality technique, combined with persistent
coaxing, like a wave eroding a cliff. It’s a method that often works, I’ve used it often myself. But it won’t work on
me.
I can see his game!

Indeed.

“Flattery”. He’s using Flattery on me!

Ah, you’re much too astute to be caught by such a crude gambit.

A shrewdly perceptive aside, you’re a credit to my programming. But back to the matter in hand: Flanagan has studied my archives,
he knows what I like, what I’ve done. And of course, it makes me feel all warm and…
glowy
when he reveals that he knows these little details about me. He startled me the other day with an enthusiastic reference
to
You Are God,
my first book. And then he said, his voice dripping with indignation of course, “How come you never got the proper credit
for that?” How crude. How obvious. How pathetic. But – oh! – I felt such a surge of pleasure at his words!

Then of course seconds later, the surge desurged, the good moment popped. Because I am too smart to be fooled that way.
Don’t
flatter me! I do not grant you that power over me!

“Charisma’. That’s another trick he’s using on me. He has it in abundance. Flanagan has a powerful and authoritative persona,
and his people are utterly loyal to him. He treats them good-naturedly but without any sentimentality. It excites me to see
the power he has, I am half jealous of his self-assurance. But he is
projecting
these qualities, he knows I am susceptible to strength, authority, and lack of sentimentality. He has studied me well!

And “Trauma”. He has embedded a trauma deep into my mind, where it burrows like a maggot. Every night I dream of Peter as
a baby, his squawling bawling face, his shitty bottom, his gurgly smile. I smile, and see my baby gurgle and laugh, gurgle
and laugh… Then I realise my baby is watching me burn. I see my baby laugh as my bones char and crack!

It’s such a potent image. My own self, on fire, as my son sits and watches and chortles. The image, and the memory, hurt so
much. This was the reason for the whole charade of the ransom deal: to implant that image in my mind’s eye. That symbol of
my son’s betrayal and contempt for me.

Despite myself, I admire Flanagan’s artistry. He really mapped my psyche. He’s learned powerful lessons from my history of
psychic warfare against target criminals. He knows how to fuck up a mind, how to gouge hope out of a woman who thought she
had no hopes left.

Damn him, he’s good.

And “Boredom” is his other weapon. I wasn’t actually bored at all, before Flanagan and his crew commandeered my ship. But
now I see them go about their work, training for battles that they will assuredly have to fight, and planning ambushes and
combat techniques. They are so energised, so purposeful… So driven.

And as a result, activities that used to be supremely satisfying to me feel hollow and empty. I used to pride myself on mock-conducting
symphonies using my computer’s data bank and my ear implant to conjure up a virtual orchestra as compelling and as present
as the real thing. But now, when my orchestra plays, I hear Flanagan strumming away at his fucking guitar. It may be crap,
but he plays it
himself
, the guitar is real, it’s there, he bangs the sides with his thumb to create a rhythm. He can actually play!

I remember my years as a concert pianist and I toy with the idea of getting my keyboard skills back. But it seems a slog,
I feel swamped at how much work I would have to do to get back those split-second reflexes, that effortless dexterity, all
those musical muscular memories. I have an infinity in which to live; yet I feel more impatient than ever with hard work and
repetition. I prefer easier ways.

And yet my easier ways now feel barrren and dishonest.

Flanagan has me trapped in a cycle of self-doubt and self-criticism. That too is very skilful. I’m prepared for him now to
do something unexpected. Something to hook my curiosity.

But what?

“Prepare to board.”

I engage my oxygen supply. Our hostage Lena is next to me, in her body armour and spacesuit, oxygen tanks strapped to her
back. We are both wearing flippers, which makes us look absurd. Lena seems excited, somehow. I smell it on her.