Utopia Read online

UTOPIA

  By

  CARLA EATHERINGTON

  ISBN: -13: 978-1540370815

  Utopia © 2016 Carla Eatherington

  Carla Eatherington asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the express written permission of Carla Eatherington.

  And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

  - John 8:32

  Chapter One

  A low moan emanates from the apartment next door and resonates in the silence between my mother and me. Slowly she lowers her book and tilts her head backwards, closing her eyes. I hear her exhale deeply and there’s a long pause before I see her chest begin to rise as she inhales again.

  “Zia,” my mother begins. “I’ve done a twelve hour shift and I’m exhausted, could you go next door for me?”

  Sarcastic retorts gather on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them and pull the corners of my lips up into a smile. My mother is my best friend and one of the two people who I’m truly able to be myself around. But she’s been tired a lot recently, and her eyes have become ringed by dark shadows which make her look older. As a young girl I used to imagine what my father would look like, but given the differences between my mother’s appearance and mine, it doesn’t bode well. So far all I’ve gathered is that he had dark hair and eyes and that he was short.

  “No problem,” I reply, glancing at the large pan of pasta bubbling on the hob. “I’ll go after dinner.”

  “Thanks,” she smiles weakly, touching my shoulder. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow?”

  My stomach clenches involuntarily and I squirm as nervous energy begins to bubble to the surface. My mother has gone to a lot of trouble to secure this internship for me and I’m grateful, but it also feels like a weight hanging over me. Within the compound job opportunities are limited and the problem is growing. When the compound was first designed it was a Utopian society in which young adults selected a job after completing basic schooling. However, as more generations were born the number of teenagers needing jobs had rapidly outgrown the number of vacancies available.

  “I am,” I say with conviction, but I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.

  ***

  An icy billow of air barges its way past me as I pull the front door open. I shudder, reaching back inside to lift a heavy woollen coat off the hook. It’s my mother’s, and swinging it around my shoulders I’m swathed in a warm embrace which smells of her perfume. The scent is honeysuckle, like my mother’s namesake, but the wind soon carries it away.

  Walking along the balcony that runs the length of the apartment block, I look out over the compound. It’s dark but the outlines of buildings are still clearly defined by the hundreds of rooms alight within them. My gaze sweeps around the high concrete wall topped with razor wire which surrounds the compound. Beyond the wall is darkness, miles of grassland punctuated by low shrubs and trees. I sometimes wonder what it would feel like to run around in all that space rather than being stacked on top of each other, but talking about outside is taboo.

  Fumbling in my jeans I pull out a small silver key and, squinting with one eye closed, I insert it into the keyhole and turn with a satisfying click. Pushing the door open my senses are momentarily overcome by the stench of ammonia clawing at my nostrils. The room is dimly lit and the stagnant smell hangs heavy in the warm air.

  The apartment is smaller than ours, with only one bedroom that’s currently being used as storage. In the middle of the living room is a bulky double bed, layered with blankets like icing on a cake. Cocooned in the middle of the bed is a small contorted figure with long wavy golden hair and a pointy, sunken face. It might even be a pretty face if she gained a few pounds to plump up her cheeks and warm her sallow complexion.

  I creep stealthily towards the bed to see whether she’s sleeping, but Jo is not.

  “I thought it might be you. Where’s your mother?” she asks.

  “Asleep on the sofa. Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I was in pain earlier, but it’s passed.”

  This positive outlook is quintessentially Jo, although I’m in awe of where she gets it from. I’ve never asked outright what exactly is wrong with her, but it’s clear from her appearance that she has a crooked spine. My mother once told me that Jo’s parents didn’t want a deformed child and hoped she’d die soon after birth, but she didn’t die. Instead Jo fought the odds and won—if you can call this winning. A home help is supposed to visit twice a day to help cook and clean, but there’s little consistency and frequent omissions; with unemployment so high other people don’t see why they should go to work. I train my eyes towards the kitchen, surveying the accumulation of dirty pots and pans which sprawl across the surfaces.

  “Has anyone been today?” I ask.

  “No they got held up at another appointment. They called.”

  I grind my teeth in frustration but say nothing. “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “No, I’m fine thanks. I warmed up some casserole that your mum brought over yesterday.”

  It’s the unjustness that I find myself unable to reconcile. Jo’s smart and witty and kind. There are so many people who don’t have even half of what she has to offer the world, and yet she lies alone, in pain, in dirty sheets.

  “Is it your first day tomorrow?” she asks suddenly.

  I fill the sink with hot soapy water that smells strongly of antiseptic and submerge the largest pan beneath the bubbles.

  “Yeah, but I’m trying not to think about it,” I answer honestly. Jo has this truth serum-like effect on me, whether I like it or not.

  “Are you worried?”

  I look back though the open doorway towards the bed. Jo is sat upright, watching me with a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  “I’m very nervous,” I confess.

  “What’s there to be scared about?”

  “I said nervous, not scared,” I laugh. “Oh, you know me. I’m just not good at meeting new people.”

  “Well remember that sarcasm rubs people up the wrong way, and when they say dumb things you don’t always need to point it out and correct them.”

  I dramatically place a wet hand on my hip and turn to look at her once more. She’s pouting profusely, trying unsuccessfully to disguise a grin. I mirror her expression until we erupt into a chorus of laughter.

  ***

  After an hour chatting with Jo and cleaning her apartment, I bend down to give her a hug. “I’m going to leave now and try to get an early night, but I’ll come and tell you all about it tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, I’ll look forward to that.”

  I smile, although it saddens me to think that it probably will be all she has to look forward to tomorrow.

  Pulling the outside door closed behind me, the silence is punctured by a raspy voice which echoes through the empty streets below. Grasping the wall firmly, I lean over to pinpoint the sound. The street is bathed in a dull orange glow from the lamp posts that stand on every corner, and under the nearest light I see the wavering outline of a known local drunk.

  “They treat me like I’m an idiot... think I don’t know... but I do,” he slurs.

  Whirling around, the man staggers back a few paces and seizes hold of a shadowy figure watching from the sideline. I recognise the figure from school; he’s a year older than me with a reputation for fighting.

  “D’you understand?” the man yells, holding him at arm’s length by a fistful of his collar, but the boy remains defiantly silent.

  Lunging forward the man brings his right fist up sharply. My jaw clenches as the boy’s head jerks violently and he stumbles backwards, landing heavily on the cobbled street. Reflexively, he pulls his knees up towards his chest and wraps his arms protectively over his head and face. I hold my breath in disbelief as the man repeatedly stamps on the figure before stumbling off down the road.

  The boy remains motionless for several minutes after his attacker has disappeared. His hands are clasped tightly over his nose and mouth and I think I see blood seeping through his fingers. I watch his chest rise and fall sharply and, despite his formidable reputation, I wonder whether he’s crying. Slowly he props himself upright and rises unsteadily to his feet, using the lamppost for support. A strong urge threatens to send my feet running down the stairs to help. But I know better than to get involved in other people’s affairs.

  I reluctantly return home.

  Chapter Two

  Standing in front of a full length mirror, I inspect my appearance. I’m wearing the same snow-white tunic dress that my mother wears to work but it hangs at an odd length, halfway down my calves, making it look more like I’m playing dressing up than training to become a nurse.

  My mother calls from the living room, “Time to go.”

  “Coming,” I reply, stealing one last glance at my appearance.

  As if operated by clockwork, my mother lays down her book and rises from the sofa when I enter the room. At the front door I hunt for my recklessly abandoned black leather school shoes and slip them on, before turning the key and yanking the front door open. It’s still dark outside but the night sky has been torn in several places and daylight pours in through the wounds. The balcony is wet from a steady drizzle and the compound is shrouded in mist, like a cloud has enveloped us. I pull my green woollen coat tightl
y around my chest and fasten the brass clasps at the front.

  As we exit the apartment block and spill out into the cobbled street below, I look over at the lamppost where I saw the boy last night but see no sign of the scuffle which took place. Walking through the damp streets the infirmary soon comes into view. It’s an ugly concrete block layered with rows of lights shining from the wards inside. My mother has worked as a nurse at the infirmary since she was my age. It’s where I was born and where my grandmother died nine months ago. I have ambivalent feelings when I think about her death. I’m sad because we only have a small family and she was a large part of it, but there’s also a darker feeling attached. In her final weeks they told me that she’d developed dementia so I should stay away, but one time I sneaked in to visit her. She knew who I was and where she was, but ranted like a mad woman about being trapped like ants under a magnifying glass. Her words still haunt me.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” my mother asks, for what could easily be the tenth time this morning.

  I pause, contemplating whether to indulge her pathological need to know my location.

  “Reception,” I relent.

  She nods, satisfied. “And do you know where that is?”

  “Mother, it’s reception, why would they hide it?”

  At the main entrance she kisses me softly on the cheek and quietly wishes me luck, then quickly slips inside and disappears into the crowd without looking back. I bet she’s crying. I approach the front desk where I’m subsequently ushered through a maze of whitewashed corridors into a small room with a large oval table occupying most of the space. I’m surprised to see a girl I recognise from school already seated at the table. I wouldn’t call her a friend; in fact I doubt that we’d speak at all if her father didn’t work as a doctor on the same ward as my mother.

  “Zia!” she calls out as I enter the room.

  “Hi Lisa, I didn’t expect to see you here,” I reply, pulling out the chair next to her.

  She looks slightly put out by my comment. “And why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh no reason, I just meant that I hadn’t expected to know anyone. It’s nice that you are though,” I add, with Jo’s words ringing in my ears.

  “My father’s a doctor,” she says in a haughty voice, pausing for dramatic effect like she’s expecting the magnitude of the statement to sink in. “I can do whatever I want. Did you know that I finished top of the year?”

  My facial features stiffen as I resist the urge to draw them into a deep frown. I hate this sort of self-entitled attitude. Why should her father’s position make her more eligible? What’s more, I know she’s lying because I achieved the highest grades in the year. My teacher rang our apartment late one night and told my mother. He wasn’t supposed to, but he thought that it might give me the confidence boost he seemingly thought I required. That and he blatantly fancied my mother.

  “Okay,” I say, refusing to enter into a debate.

  I’m relieved when the door opens again and in walks a short girl with curly brown hair that borders on frizzy. She wears dark rimmed glasses that magnify her eyes and give her appearance a childlike quality, although I suspect like me that she’s also sixteen.

  “Hi, I’m Alice,” she says as she enters.

  “I’m Zia,” I reply, smiling warmly at her. “And this is...” I pause, waiting for Lisa to interject, but she doesn’t so I finish my own sentence, “Lisa.”

  The silence that follows is deafening, but I refuse to feel compelled to fill it because Lisa’s sulking. I offer Alice another reassuring smile and we sit in the charged silence until the door flies open for a second time. A short, round woman with roses in her cheeks rushes in. She leaves an overpowering smell of floral perfume in her wake that makes my eyes water, and is followed closely by a boy and a girl who look like they’ve been running.

  “Okay everybody. Welcome,” the woman begins in an unnecessarily loud, but not unpleasant, voice. “My name’s Colleen and I’m going to be organising your training. I’m afraid that we have some paperwork to get out of the way this morning. Then this afternoon you’ll be out on the wards, beginning the first of several placements which will help you decide what area you’d like to specialise into.”

  An excited hiss escapes the group which is interrupted when the door is pushed open again by a pale skinned boy with a thin pointy chin and dark slicked back hair. He offers no apology for his late arrival and sits close to the door with his arms folded across his chest.

  ***

  The paperwork feels like it warps and stretches time, but like all things it eventually comes to an end and we’re released for lunch. Over the morning the group has noticeably fractioned into three sub-groups. First out of the room is the sour-faced boy, swiftly followed by Lisa. I feel a fleeting twinge of jealousy that she’s abandoned my company so readily, but also relief that we don’t have to make further small talk to disguise the fact that we don’t really know each other. Next to leave are the boy and girl that arrived together and I notice their fingers entwine once they’re outside the room. I wait for Alice as she hands the last of her paperwork to Coleen.

  “It’s so strange that we’ve not met before,” she says as we wander down the sterile corridors.

  I nod my head in agreement. “Yeah I know. There are less than four thousand people in the whole compound, but I’m always seeing new people.”

  “Oh really?” she asks, looking at me sideways. “I just meant that I hadn’t seen you before. Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  I feel my cheeks burning. “Oh right, yeah. So you know that slimy guy in our group?” I ask, trying to move the conversation on.

  “Unfortunately. His name’s Jericho and he thinks that he’s special because his father’s a governor.”

  I twist my mouth into a sly smile. Sounds like someone else I know.

  As we turn the next corner I can smell that we’re getting closer to the canteen. The scent is nondescript, but familiar and reminds me of school. The canteen is a large open space with a serving station at one end. Alice and I join the end of the small queue waiting for food, behind two middle-aged doctors with stethoscopes hanging around their necks.

  Food is free and unlimited in the compound, but first day nerves have chased away my appetite. As we near the front of the queue I peer into the three large vats that stand on hot plates and read the labels. ‘Vegetable curry’, ‘Chicken & rice’ and ‘Beef stew’. Taking a bowl I help myself to a small portion of vegetable curry and a bread roll.

  Scanning the dining room I look for an empty table, but my attention is grabbed by a hand waving at me. It’s the girl from our group, sitting next to her boyfriend. She isn’t someone who would typically be described as beautiful. Her long hair is almost black but shines red when the sun gleams, and she has a hooked nose, but there’s no denying that she is striking.

  “I thought it would be nice to get to know each other a bit better. I’m Hailey,” she says in a musical voice.

  “Yeah definitely,” I agree, setting my tray down carefully on the table. “I’m Zia,” I say, despite having done introductions in the morning session.

  I notice Jericho and Lisa are sat together at a nearby table, speaking in hushed tones and glancing over at us. They make a good couple; in fact I’m surprised that they don’t know each other already.

  “I’m Tommy,” the boy says, outstretching his long-fingered hand first to me, and then Alice. “So how are you finding it so far?”

  “It’s a bit slow this morning,” Alice replies, wrinkling her nose. “But this afternoon will be better.”

  “Yeah, do you guys have any idea what area you want to go into?” Hailey asks.

  Alice straightens up and begins to speak. “I’ve been volunteering, doing home visits for the elderly over the last year. It’s really interesting because the compound isn’t setup to deal with older people because there haven’t been any before.”

  Tommy and Hailey are both nodding enthusiastically. “That’s great,” Tommy begins and then Hailey takes over, like they’re one mind with two outputs. “We volunteer at an outreach programme.”

  Suddenly I’m acutely aware that I’m the only person at the table not already volunteering and I feel embarrassed by my lack of self-motivation.

  “We work mainly with homeless people, making sure that they get their fair share of food and negotiating apartments for them,” Hailey elaborates. “We believe that there are enough resources for everyone and that the officials need to stop turning a blind eye to its uneven distribution,” she adds, her eyes flashing defiantly.