Utopia Page 5

  I feel my heart begin to speed up in preparation for something. It feels ominous, and I’m not sure that I want to know, but I don’t think I could bear not to.

  “Yes,” I reply solemnly.

  “At the end of my basic schooling I was hand-selected for this position in the lab. In those days I worked under a professor who taught me what to do, but one day he was just gone. I thought for a while that he must’ve been taken ill, but nobody knew anything about it; he’d just vanished. So after a while I accepted that he wasn’t coming back and started to rearrange the lab, but when I was clearing out one of the filing cabinets I found a short newspaper clipping about an experiment on overcrowding in mice.” He pauses to take a long shaky breath and his bottom lip begins to twitch. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

  His wide eyes plead silently for me to refute his argument, but I can’t and my mind is racing.

  No birth control. No abortions. Monitoring birth rates and lineage. Removal of the dead.

  Grant’s voice is breaking, but he continues, “I don’t even think the professor was a member of the compound. I think he was an outsider who just trained me like a monkey to perform a task.”

  I’m unable to process this information. It feels like the function has been blocked in my brain and instead it’s just thrown up a screen full of error warnings. A loud high-pitched whine rings in my ears and my hands feel cold as I stumble towards my stool for stability. Grant looks concerned and guides me with his arm. I can see that his lips are moving, but his voice is unable to break through my isolation.

  My grandma was right; we are ants under a magnifying glass.

  “The compound is an experiment,” I say quietly.

  Chapter Eight

  My lungs ache and a sharp pain stabs me repeatedly in the side, but I carry on running. At the next corner my gathering momentum exceeds my legs’ ability to keep pace and I trip, skidding along the floor until I’m stopped by the compound wall. A roar of laughter erupts from close by and when I look again I realise that it’s not a concrete wall but a thick glass panel. On the other side is a stand filled with rows of people cheering like they’re watching a horse race.

  Anger rises within me and courses through my veins, amplified with every contraction of my heart. I kick the glass hard but with no effect, so I pound it with my bare fists until every ounce of my strength has been drained. The crowd cheers louder, applauding my display like a clown in a circus show. Tears begin to fall from my eyes as I plead with them to release me from my prison but their laughter only increases in volume, unmoved by my plight.

  ***

  I wake with a start. My hair is stuck across my face and my nightclothes cling to my sweat drenched skin. Shakily I push myself upright and run my fingers through my damp hair. My eyes are heavy. Sleep evaded me for many hours last night and what sleep I did find was haunted by Grant’s words. I have to talk to him again, I think to myself. My alarm clock isn’t due to go off for another hour but I know that Grant arrives at work early each morning to eat his breakfast at his computer, and if I’m quick I’ll be able to pay him a visit before starting my new placement in the fracture clinic.

  Stealthily I creep through the apartment like a burglar, except I’m trying to get out. I write a note for my mother and leave it on the kitchen table. ‘Gone to work early. Meet you at the front entrance to walk home. Love you xxx.’ But she isn’t accustomed to me taking off without prior notice, and I hope that she won’t worry. Maybe she’ll just interpret my early start as enthusiasm for my next placement.

  Questions collide in my mind, propelling further questions as I scurry down the stairs of the apartment block. I don’t know if Grant will be able to answer to any of them, but I have to try. I can’t just carry on like everything’s okay. Nothing is okay now. I’m scared that it will never be okay again.

  A shadow moves in the darkness at the side of me. I speed up and cross the road, but my heart skips a beat when I see a dark hooded figure emerge from the shadows and follow me. The image of the gang surrounding me yesterday leaps into my mind and my instincts tell me to run, but I don’t run. There’s something familiar in the figure’s gait, and they keep their distance too well.

  I stop.

  “What the hell are you following me for? You know I can report you for this, right?” I shout. I’m in no mood for games this morning.

  “I wasn’t following you. I was escorting you,” Lake replies, walking closer. The bruise on his cheekbone has now been paired with a split lip. “Aren’t you a bit early today?”

  “I’m going to work early, but that doesn’t explain why you’re out at this time or why you’re trailing me.”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I had something to do, and it’s still dark, so I didn’t want you to have to walk alone. You know... protect you from people like me.”

  I look at him − in fact stare is probably a more apt description − it feels like I’m seeing him for the very first time. Not the bad lad at school that kicked off and caused trouble. Not the leader of a thug gang. Not the son of an alcoholic. I see him, I see his personality and it’s beautiful.

  I try to apologise but the words crash into one another and very few of them actually come out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to−” I take a deep breath to regain my composure. “I’d really like your company, if that’s still on offer?” I ask, looking into his eyes. They’re hazel coloured; I didn’t know that. I don’t even know why it feels important, but it does.

  “Sure,” he says, shrugging his shoulders again and striding out.

  Despite slowing my pace, the familiar square outline of the infirmary soon comes into view. The conversation flows easily between us which gives me the confidence to ask, “Why do I need protecting from people like you?” I ask, partly because I’m interested to learn more about his world view but also because I want him to know that he doesn’t need to protect me. I’ve glimpsed his tumultuous world and I want in.

  He carefully forms his lips around the words. “Because you’re different; you’re not like us.”

  Fantastic, I think to myself. I don’t even know why I’m bothered. I’m glad to be different from the loud mouthed girls that I’ve seen draped over him at school. Fashion has always been an enigma to me. Why is it attractive to pluck out your natural eyebrows which prevent debris from falling into the eyes, and replace them with thick black lines that make you look permanently surprised? Or why do girls smother their natural skin tone with heavy foundation to make it several shades more orange? I’m glad I’m not like them, but it doesn’t explain why he’s here with me now.

  After a pause he adds, “It’s a good thing.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because we’re damaged goods, and we rely on each other because we’ve got no one else. We’re all going to hell, but then there’s a good chance that almost everyone in this compound is.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, suddenly remembering the reason that I’m walking to work early.

  We stand outside of the main entrance and despite my desperation to talk to Grant, I’m reluctant to go inside. Lake has an effect on me, much like gravity causes our planet to orbit the sun; I can’t release myself from his pull.

  “Well, if there was any good in this place, then it’s for a long time been outnumbered,” he replies with a smile which I suspect masks a painful memory. “When I was younger I heard a story about a young woman that lived near us. She got pregnant accidentally and tried to have an illegal abortion but it didn’t work. When she inevitably went into labour some months later, instead of going to the infirmary she went back to the same place and they disposed of the unwanted baby. Rumour has it that they’d discarded so many other babies before, that when they posted it down the storm drain it didn’t even hit the water. Instead the baby was heard crying for two days before it finally fell silent. God has deserted us.”

  I stare transfixed, drawn to the horror of the story. He nods towards the door.

  “Um, yes I should probably go,” I stammer and hesitantly move inside the entrance.

  “Have a good day,” he mumbles to the floor.

  I sweep quickly along the familiar corridors towards the lab. Some mornings I vary my approach just to keep it interesting, but not today. This morning I walk the most direct route. I scan the maternity waiting room to make sure that no staff members are watching before reaching into my pocket to retrieve my access card and letting myself through the doors. I press the door handle down as I reach the lab, but the door doesn’t open. I consider knocking since I’m not expected this morning, but decide that Grant would be more put out if I made him stand up, so I swipe my card again.

  Inside, the lab is cold and all of the equipment is turned off, including Grant’s computer. He hasn’t been in yet. I pound the worktop with my fist as questions sear on the tip of my tongue. Who was the professor that taught him what to do? What about this newspaper article? When does the experiment finish? Will they let us go when it does? I feel frustrated and angry with myself. I’d expected Grant to be here, but now I’ll leave unfulfilled.

  Throwing open the double doors I storm back through the waiting room, but as I pass I notice the clock on the wall. I’m not expected in the fracture clinic for another forty-five minutes so I decide to wait for Grant. Sitting on a blue plastic chair in the waiting room, I see Helena in one of the labour suites and approach her.

  “Hi Helena, I don’t suppose you know where Grant is today?” I ask in a casual voice.

  She turns around to look at me. “Hello,” she says smiling. “I didn’t think that we’d be seeing any more of you. Actually I got a phone call from a governor today saying that Grant’s been offered a consultancy post there and won’t be returning.”

  Won’t be returning?

  My bottom jaw drops open in shock, but I quickly recover my composure. “Good for him,” I try to say, but it comes out as more of a hiss through my clenched teeth. I spin on my heels and race out of the waiting room, but I can barely see where I’m going through my tear-filled eyes. Alarm bells wail in my head like sirens. This isn’t right. He wouldn’t have done that, not after what he told me yesterday. I don’t understand why Helena can’t see that this is wrong. Maybe she’s in on it. I wipe my eyes and look back over my shoulder, but Helena’s nowhere to be seen. Nobody is.

  Without a second thought I leap into action and sprint back towards the lab. I let myself in and lock the door behind me. My heart is hammering so loudly that I can feel it pounding in my head as I scan the room for any clue that Grant was planning on leaving. I tug open the first couple of drawers in the filing cabinet closet to Grant’s desk. They open easily but I’m disappointed to see that they’re empty. Pulling open the others, I find more of the same, all empty. Maybe he has left for a consultancy post after all. But why wouldn’t he have mentioned that to me?

  As I close the last drawer, I recoil in shock. In the top left-hand corner, where the cabinet locks, there is a deep puncture mark with jagged metal edges. Grant didn’t clear out his filing cabinet, someone else did. All my instincts tell me to flee, but I force myself to continue looking for clues that might tell me where he is. Very few people are granted access to the lab, only high-ranking members of the infirmary. I know this will be the last time that I come back here.

  I sink down onto my old stool, looking at Grant’s empty one next to me, and try to compose my thoughts. The newspaper article; I need to find the article. I need to know whether there was more to it than what he told me, and what the details were. I wonder whether our conversation yesterday had anything to do with his disappearance. Did he tell somebody else who informed the officials? The realisation crashes over me like a wave breaking on the rocks. Cameras.

  CCTV cameras are mounted in every room in the infirmary for staff and patient’s safety. However, what if the footage was being used for another purpose? And what if the CCTV units were also fitted with microphones? People’s conversations and actions could be monitored not only in every room within the infirmary, but every public building or area within the whole compound. I fight to keep my breathing steady and quell the rising panic. Grant is right. The compound is an experiment and we’re the test subjects.

  I am overwhelmed by a feeling of hopelessness, and tears begin to roll down my face in quick succession. How will I ever feel the same way about my home again? The answer to my question is clear. I won’t. A new sense of determination grips me and I act fast in case they are watching me on the CCTV footage. On the worktop next to me is a thick book simply titled, ‘DNA’. I read chapters from it whilst working with Grant so I know that it weighs a ton. Pressing my hands flat on the work surface, I pull myself up and turn so that I’m sitting on its surface. Curling my fingers around the book I rise to my feet and walk along the worktop until I reach the corner. Then, holding the book above my head, rage fills me and I smile directly into the camera before bringing the book down hard.

  I hear a clatter as the camera bounces off the worktop and then onto the floor. In its place are naked wires poking through a hole in the ceiling like snakes. I throw the book down triumphantly and scan the room from my new higher vantage point. Grant practically lives in this lab. If they didn’t find it already, I know that the article will be in here. I begin searching through the other drawers and cupboards; some of them are newly emptied and others are ransacked but nothing appears to be missing. Next I turn on his computer and trawl through his PDFs and JPEGs in case he scanned the clipping, but I doubt that he would have. Finally, I slide the filing cabinets out to see whether he hid the article behind them for safe keeping. Nothing.

  I rest my forehead on the door, not wanting to leave empty-handed. Turning back to look at Grant’s empty stool one last time, the memory of him pulling out my access pass from the bottom drawer plays out behind my eyes. Except looking at the drawers I realise that he needs to lean too far forward. He didn’t reach into the draw, he reached behind it.

  Dashing back over to the cabinet, I slide out the bottom drawer. It stops when it hits the end of the runners, so I lift it and pull the draw free. Peering into the dark hole, instead of seeing the white flecked linoleum floor there’s a yellowing piece of paper with a ragged torn edge on the left-hand side. Holding my breath in anticipation, I reach in and scoop it up. The paper feels dry and crunchy and the ink has begun to fade, but three columns of print are still clearly visible. I read the headline, ‘Mouse Experiment on Overcrowding Predicts the Fate of Humanity’.

  I look up at the naked wires where the CCTV camera was, then down at my watch. I’m already late for my first day at my new placement, but given the magnitude of the revelation that’s just unfolded in my mind, I can’t bring myself to care. If there really is someone monitoring the CCTV cameras then they’ll know that it was me who vandalised the camera in the lab and speculate about what I did unseen.

  Tucking the precious newspaper clipping deeply into the emerald lining of my coat, I exit the lab swiftly and silently before rushing back through the waiting room. I glide through the maze of corridors without thinking about where I’m going, my mind a hurricane of possibilities. I find myself walking back towards the main entrance. A large part of me longs to run home and read every word of the newspaper article undisturbed, and a smaller part of me wants to flee to the safety of my home in case someone confronts me about the damage that I’ve done to the lab. After several minutes of agonised deliberation at the entrance, I decide that the best plan of action is just to go to the fracture clinic and tell them that I got lost. Then on my lunch break I’ll find somewhere secluded to read the article that Grant hid to find out if it answers any of my questions.

  ***

  By the time that I reach the fracture clinic I’m over half an hour late. It’s only a small department with a few rows of blue plastic chairs in an alcove on the right-hand side, and I’m surprised by how quiet it is. Only one woman sits in the alcove with her arm suspended in a sling that hangs from her neck. She smiles at me as I walk past which makes me jump slightly. It feels like I’m an elastic band under tension, ready to snap at any moment.

  A young man in pale blue infirmary smocks overtakes me, and I follow him as he slips around the corner. He doesn’t look old enough to be in charge, but he’s the only person here so I approach him.

  “Hi, my name is Zia and I’m starting a placement at the fracture clinic today,” I say, sounding overly formal.

  The young man studies my face thoughtfully for a few seconds. “What, here?”

  I feel my cheeks flush, firstly with embarrassment but it quickly morphs into anger. “Yes, at the fracture clinic. Is your supervisor here?”

  “No, it’s just me.”

  “Oh. Well do you know when they’ll be back?”

  “No, it’s just me,” he says in a mocking tone. “Nobody else is in today.”

  "Okay. Well will they be in tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I think so, maybe.”

  “Okay thanks. I’ll be back then.”

  A chorus of potential sarcastic remarks dance on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it. I walk out of the department as fast as I can without looking like a criminal fleeing from the scene of the crime. I suppose I am really, and my victim − one CCTV camera. I sweep through the corridors with my head down, hoping not to bump into anyone that can stop me from leaving and going home to read the newspaper article. The article feels much heavier in my pocket than the actual weight of the paper, and I cup it protectively.

  On the way home I alternate between walking and jogging; walking feels too slow, but jogging looks too obvious. When I turn the last corner I notice a large group of people gathered near the front entrance to my apartment block. People turn to look at me as I approach with woeful expressions on their faces. I don’t normally elicit attention, and I’ve often prided myself on my ability to merge seamlessly into the background. I slow my pace and then stop altogether. Something’s wrong. I watch as members of the crowd alternate their gaze between me and a black tarpaulin sheet laid on the ground a few feet behind them. The shape is familiar, laid out as if she was sleeping on the sofa.