Utopia Page 4

  ***

  Pulling open the front door, I step out onto the wet concrete balcony. The rain drives in at an angle so I turn my back to it and flick my hood up. We creep slowly down the stairs together, taking care not to tread on the wet slippery leaves that have gathered in the corners of the steps.

  Trees are the only living plant life that we have in the compound and the only indicator, apart from the weather, of the passing seasons. It’s currently autumn and the leaves have turned vibrant fiery colours, leaping like embers from a flame when the wind gusts. As a young child I tried to grow plants from seeds inside the vegetables we get from the food bank, but they always failed to sprout.

  At the main entrance of the infirmary my mother kisses me on the cheek but doesn’t wish me luck this time. An oversight on her part, perhaps, because based on yesterday I think I’m going to need it. We part like magnets pushing each other away and I watch as the steady flow of people swallow her up like a rock thrown into a stream.

  Dawdling through the stark corridors, which are empty of everything except people, I feel a comforting familiarity as I make my way back to the meeting room. The door is ajar and I’m pleased to see Alice and Lisa already seated, although they’re not talking. They sit three chairs apart and I realise that I’m going to have to make a choice. Quietly I pull out the empty chair next to Alice and sit down, avoiding Lisa’s glare.

  “Hey,” Alice says in a bright and cheery voice. “How’d you find yesterday afternoon?”

  “Erm, hard work,” I reply. “You?”

  “The same, but I found it really rewarding.”

  I nod in agreement, although I don’t know why because I can’t say that I found yesterday very rewarding.

  Lake’s anguished face flashes behind my eyes so vividly that I almost think he’s in the room and it makes me jump. His eyes are closed, screwed up tightly, and his lips are thinly drawn back over his teeth. Then in a moment he’s changed, and the difference is like night and day. In my mind’s eye I watch him rise to his feet and pull back his hood to let the moonlight cascade upon him, revealing a wicked smile.

  The sound of Hailey and Tommy’s voices growing louder recalls me from my thoughts. They fill in the two empty chairs between Lisa and I, and the four of us eagerly begin sharing stories from yesterday. I don’t tell them about Lake.

  Hailey is midway through an amusing story about bed-washing an elderly gentleman when Colleen bustles through the door carrying a worn brown satchel. Her cheeks are glowing and shine from perspiration. I glance down at my wristwatch, bang on seven-thirty. She’s an unusual blend of disorganised punctuality.

  “Good morning. Nice to see you all again,” she pants. “Actually this isn’t all of you, where’s the other boy?”

  I scan the room, suddenly registering Jericho’s absence. Unconsciously I look towards Lisa, but she shrugs her shoulders in answer to my unasked question.

  “Well, we’ll make a start anyway,” Colleen continues. “Today you’ll be allocated the placements where you’ll work for the next three weeks, which will give you time to experience the diverse roles that they have to offer. In the pursuit of fairness I’ve assigned places randomly, but if anyone has any serious objections then they can raise them with me afterwards. Okay?”

  We nod in unison and Coleen lifts the satchel up onto the table before flipping it open. The bag is empty apart from a stack of brown A4 envelopes which she gathers up into her chubby hands. Each envelope has a name scrawled on the front in blue biro. Coleen squints at the handwriting, although I suspect it’s her own, and hands them out accordingly.

  I slip my index finger under the gum, tearing the envelope open and let the contents spill out onto the table. My attention is immediately grabbed by a glossy leaflet, ‘Aftercare for mothers and infants’, followed by another, ‘Breastfeeding’. I feel a knot form in the pit of my stomach which tightens with every word that I read. I’ve never felt comfortable around babies and young children. It’s not that I don’t like them, more that I’ve never had any experience with them; I always think they’re going to do something terrible like die when left in my care.

  In addition to the leaflets, there are two pieces of paper. The first has a large colourful map of the infirmary printed on it, with the maternity department circled in yellow highlighter. I contemplate Colleen’s reasoning behind not equipping us with a map yesterday, but conclude that there probably wasn’t any and she simply didn’t have the time. The other piece of paper has several printed lines on it.

  Dear student,

  On behalf of the whole team we welcome you to the maternity department.

  You will spend the next three weeks learning a wide range of new skills from all sections of the ward and getting up close and personal with both mothers and their babies.

  Please familiarise yourself with the enclosed leaflets and we look forward to meeting you shortly.

  Kind regards,

  Nurse Helena.

  Up until this point I’ve told my fellow students that I’m undecided about what area I would like to specialise into after training, but it appears that I’m not. I feel with absolute certainty that I do not want to work in maternity. I consider asking Coleen whether I can swap to a different department, but I feel conflicted. At least the maternity department seem enthusiastic about my arrival, and I’m not sure that my vague sense of dislike counts as a ‘serious objection’.

  I lean towards Alice. “Where are you?”

  “A and E again.” Alice looks thoughtful for a moment. “I hope it’s quieter than last time. It went crazy when I was about to leave yesterday. What about you?”

  “Maternity,” I reply sullenly.

  “Oh, I had a lovely time there. Just think of all the babies,” Alice says in a dreamy voice, standing up to leave the room.

  That’s exactly what I’m trying not to think about.

  I’ve never been to the maternity department before and consider consulting the map inside my envelope before deciding just to follow the signposts.

  “If we have lunch at the same time, I’ll meet you at the same table as yesterday,” Alice calls as we diverge.

  “Okay. Have a good morning,” I call back over my shoulder.

  As I wander down the maze of identical corridors, following the signs towards maternity, I think about Jericho. I’m not surprised that he hasn’t showed up today; if I found yesterday challenging then I can only imagine that someone with his dogmatic personality would have found it unbearable. Perhaps I can even begin to sympathise with Lake’s resentment towards people like us. It must be very difficult for those without to witness those that have throw it all away so readily.

  As I round the next corner the smell changes. Although indescribable, it’s a primal smell that I instantly recognise as newborn babies. There are also brightly-coloured animals wearing clothes and standing on their hindquarters painted on the white walls. I must be close. Pushing open a pair of heavy double doors, I’m met by a rush of warm air and busy chatter as I walk into a large open waiting room.

  A group of young women with swollen stomachs look up expectantly as I enter but don’t let their conversation drop. I pause to take in my surroundings and flinch as a shrill cry pierces the air, but nobody else appears alarmed. A nurse with an upside down watch pinned to her tunic catches my eye and drifts over.

  “There’s no need to be alarmed,” she says when she gets within earshot. “You must be Zia. I’m Nurse Helena and I understand that you’re going to be joining us for the next three weeks.”

  I smile and nod silently because I can’t think of anything to say.

  “I’m a good friend of your mother’s,” Helena adds, perhaps trying to put me at my ease.

  I’ve never really thought of my mother having friends at work let alone ‘good’ friends.

  “Your mother found it most amusing when I told her that Miss Zia Greene would be joining us today.”

  I twist my lips into something that I think is halfway between a laugh and despair, if such a facial expression exists. “I haven’t had much experience with children and, to be honest, I’m feeling a bit nervous about it.” It feels good to say it aloud.

  “Yes, I spotted you as soon as you walked in. Not because you look like your mother, but because you looked like you were walking the steps to the gallows.”

  I laugh, I mean a real laugh. I like her already.

  “Sorry, it’s all just been a bit much to take in.”

  Helena weaves her way through the waiting room. “I understand. That’s why I’ve put you in the lab today. Your mother told me that you like science.”

  I follow her as she exits the waiting room. At the next set of double doors she pauses to scan her access pass and I hear a dull click as the doors release. Once through, she pushes open another door to the left, revealing a small white room with no windows. Around the circumference of the room is a workbench with various computer monitors and microscopes plugged in along its surface and cupboards and filing cabinets underneath.

  Peering down one of the microscopes is a balding man in his late fifties, perched on a stool. His presence surprises me, not because I’d expected the room to be unoccupied, but because I realise this is the first man I’ve seen in the maternity department. It takes two to make a baby; however, men appear to be obsolete when it comes to giving birth to them.

  “Hi Grant, this is Zia and she’s going to be helping you today.” Helena waits for a reply for only a moment. “Is that okay?”

  Grant tilts his head to the side and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. He nods so subtly that I barely notice, but with that Helena is gone. The door clicks shut behind her and I’m left standing alone. He points at a stool pushed under the worktop t
o my right.

  I sit.

  Chapter Seven

  “So−” I drawl, trying to break the tension. “What do you do in here?” My voice isn’t as loud or clear as I’d have liked, but I’m sure that he’s heard me.

  He doesn’t respond.

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  I shuffle uncomfortably on the stool, trying to suppress the rising urge to scream or cry, or both. The agony of silence draws it out into a length of time that feels like whole galaxies could have been born and died.

  “Can you at least give me clue?” I snap.

  “Look, Zia, I’m sure that you’re a nice girl, but I’m very busy and don’t really have time right now,” he says, glancing up at one of the computer monitors filled with numbers.

  “Oh, well that makes you and almost everyone else that I’ve met in the infirmary so far. Now if you can just tell Nurse Helena that you’ve got better things to do, then I can go and feel awkward out there handling babies instead.”

  He pauses for a moment and then looks at me for the first time. “You don’t like babies?” he asks in a quizzical voice. “Then what on earth are you doing in the maternity department?”

  “I’d have thought the fact that I’ve ended up back here with you would’ve given you a pretty good idea that I’m not in control of my own destiny.”

  I’m trying not to get upset but I can feel it creeping up my throat, tightening as it does.

  He snorts.

  I don’t know whether it’s caused by genuine amusement, or something that a person does before they explode in anger. I wait, staring unseeing at the door − my exit − but the explosion of anger doesn’t come. Slowly I turn my head back towards him and I’m stunned to see him smiling. He looks different, younger, less encumbered.

  “Alright, hothead,” he says, his beady dark eyes shining brightly. “So what I do is extract the DNA fingerprint from every baby that’s born. Then we add this information to a database which holds the DNA of all members of the compound, even yours.”

  Curiosity prickles the back of my neck and the question springs loose before I can reconsider it. “Why?”

  “I’m creating a genetic map of everyone and how they interrelate to see whether some genetic traits are more prevalent,” he explains.

  “You mean whether some people have more children than others?”

  “Yeah, but more specifically whether some genes or personality traits dictate the number of children a person will invariably have during their lifetime.”

  I’m stunned into silence. I didn’t consent to provide my DNA or even know that I had. They stole it.

  Slowly another piece of the grim jigsaw puzzle slides into place, revealing another glimpse of a disturbing larger picture. At the end of our basic schooling everyone was required to take what I’d felt smug to work out was a personality test. At the time I’d assumed that the results would help inform what jobs we were put forward for, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it was simply the optimal time to gather this data, once our personalities had solidified and we were physically able to reproduce; too late in some cases.

  Without intending to I call my own family to mind. I’ve never met my father; I don’t even know who he is. I tried discussing it with my mother when I was younger, but the subject seemed to unsettle her so I resigned myself to not knowing. I’m an only child, which is certainly unusual within the compound, and always wondered how different my life would have been if I’d grown up with siblings.

  I pause to gauge the appropriateness of my next question. “Grant, why don’t they carry out terminations in the infirmary? I mean, we know that people have backyard abortions anyway, so why not carry out the procedure in sterile conditions with a real surgeon? In fact why don’t we permit the use of contraception for that matter?” The questions tumble out on top of each other rapidly, like they’ve been building up over the years and have finally been undammed.

  I wait in anticipation of his response. My mother would have smothered the conversation as soon as I began to ask questions about the workings of the compound. She would have told me that it’s a fundamental part of the Catholic faith and that it’s morally wrong to question it, but Grant doesn’t.

  He stares over my head into the corner of the room and then leans in close. Close enough that I can feel his breath as it touches my face. He draws in a deep steady breath which he exhales as a sigh. “I understand your frustration, I really do,” he says in a whisper that’s barely audible even to me. “But this is a part of something bigger than you understand and one day I hope that you’ll know just what that is.” Grant leans away and swivels back towards his microscope.

  I sense that the conversation has ended and that follow-up questions would be unwelcome. Instead I watch him deftly change slides and refocus the microscope.

  “So how do you extract DNA?” I ask.

  Grant looks up again. “A good question. Let’s do it.”

  I’m pleased that I’ve actually managed to be of some use here. Well, Grant did the first one, but I’ve done the others almost unassisted and my slides are now prepped for Grant to analyse under his microscope.

  My empty stomach gurgles so I look down at my watch; half one already. “Can I take a lunch break now?” I ask, although I suspect that I’ve already missed Alice.

  Grant purses his lips and glowers disapprovingly. “Zia, it might not have been your choice to come here or however you so elegantly phrased it, but you can get lunch whenever you damned want.” He reaches into the bottom draw of the closest cabinet and pulls out a card suspended on a lanyard. “You’re not supposed to have an access card of your own, but I have a spare one which I’m going to place on this worktop for safekeeping,” he says in a mock serious voice.

  I snatch the card and push the door open. Striding confidently back through the waiting room towards the canteen, I feel a smile spread across my face; a genuine easy smile which mirrors the warm feeling in my chest.

  I like Grant, he’s my sort of person. In fact, he’s like me.

  ***

  The following three weeks slip by almost unnoticed in Grant’s company. In fact, we get along so well that Helena doesn’t even ask me to rotate around the rest of the maternity department. Grant teaches me various techniques which I practice diligently until I’m capable of performing them independently. I find him curiously good company and soon begin eating my lunch in the lab with him instead of meeting the others in the canteen.

  It turns out that he isn’t sullen and reserved like I’d first thought. Our conversations are wide ranging and inexhaustible. He’s knowledgeable on so many different topics and able to conjure an opinion about anything. I feel sad at the prospect of leaving and wonder if I chose to specialise into this area, if he would object to my company on a more permanent basis.

  “Grant, since today is my last day...” I say casually.

  He grins, “You’ve made me a present and baked me a cake?”

  “No,” I say, cutting him off. “Who’s running the project that we’re working on, who proposed it?”

  I know that I’m asking a huge question which I’ve only thinly attempted to veil with my casual manner, but his answer still catches me off guard.

  “Outside,” he says, matter-of-factly.

  “What, outside of the compound?” I say louder than I intend, unable to hide my astonishment.

  I’ve never heard of anyone talk about communications with the outside. Even the trucks that supply our food leave it stacked in boxes in the air lock before leaving without ever speaking to anyone.

  Without giving him time to answer I follow it up with more questions. “So did you work on this project from the start? Have you spoken to them?”

  “Not the very start, but when the project was still in its infancy.”

  I’m sure that I am pushing my luck but I can’t resist asking more questions. This might be the last time that I see him, although I doubt it.

  “What conclusions have you reached so far?”

  “I’m afraid that we’ve now reached the limit of my knowledge. I don’t know what the hypotheses are for this project. I just supply them with the data that they require,” he replies, almost embarrassed.

  “And that doesn’t concern you?” I snap, with more bile than he deserves.

  He looks at me, his complexion pale, his pupils swelled so wide they make his eyes appear black. “Zia, I’m going to tell you something, information that I’ve not known what to do with.” He reaches for my hand with his. It feels rough and dry, probably from all the chemicals he uses. “But first you must swear not to tell another living soul. Do you promise?”