Birdkill (22 page)

She fought to stay alive, to draw breath but her body was wrapped in an appalling lassitude, borne up by the warm darkness, offered up to be broken again, mewling and beyond any thought of defence or resistance.

Robyn came to, lying on the rug spread across the wooden floor of her apartment, her head in Mariam’s lap. Her friend was sponging her face with a moist flannel. She had been sick, the acrid tang in the air and her teeth furred.

‘What happened?’ She croaked.

‘You blacked out, babe. It was my fault, I’m truly sorry. I tried to take you back to remembering Zahlé.’

‘I don’t recall it. Just looking up Jenny Wilson and Clive getting blocked out.’

‘It’s okay, you had some sort of seizure. I think we should call an ambulance.’

Robyn shook her head. ‘No. No way. Leave it. I’m fine.’ She struggled to raise herself to sit, throwing out an arm to stop herself falling sideways. She had been crying, her eyes felt puffy and she felt somehow removed from it all, a sort of Pethidine feeling.

Something nagged at her, an insistent clangour. She realised it was her doorbell. ‘I’ll answer the door.’

‘No, leave it.’ She wasn’t sure if Mariam was trying to support her or hold her back, but she shrugged herself free. She tottered toward the door and fumbled the lock, leaning against the door to walk it open. Sort of like opening a lock on a canal, she thought and started to giggle.

Simon Archer looked furious. Robyn stared at him. ‘Simon. Well, hello.’

‘What the hell’s going on? You were screaming the house down.’

‘Come in,’ she threw at his back as he brushed past her.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ He stood facing Mariam and Warren.

Mariam’s hands were on her hips. ‘We’ve met before, actually’

‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

‘My name is Clive Warren. And I’d thank you to keep a civil tongue—’

‘Get out. Both of you. You’ve no right to be here and I’ll have security remove you if you don’t leave immediately.’

Warren advanced, his hands up in supplication. ‘Come on, chap, chill out.’

Archer stepped aside and gestured at the open apartment door Robyn was clutching. ‘The hell I will. I don’t know what you’ve been up to here, but Robyn’s clearly distraught and our network security systems are screaming blue murder. You’re lucky I don’t call the police.’

Warren tensed and Mariam put a hand on his sleeve. ‘No. Let’s go now. There’s nothing more we can do.’

Warren threw her a perplexed look, but nodded and made for the door. Mariam embraced Robyn, whispering. ‘Babe, please take it easy. Hang on in there and I’ll be back for you really soon. Just keep a handle on things, use the coping techniques we both learned, you hear me?’

Robyn nodded and watched them both walk away down the corridor, filled with an all-consuming sadness. She turned to find Archer still in her apartment. The door was propping her up and she didn’t feel like leaving it just yet. She was growing quite fond of it, with its nice wood grain and the way the brushed steel handle reflected the light as a diffuse glow rather than anything nasty, harsh and glinty. She smiled at Archer, somehow feeling it might look a little wobblier than she intended, but reckoning it was a smile all the same.

‘Robyn, are you sure you’re okay?’

She was beginning to wonder if that’s all anyone had to say to her. No, Simon, I’m not. There’s a sense of death inside me and I can’t quite place where it comes from but it creeps out at night and gnaws at my heart, leaving me drained and worthless every morning when I wake up.

‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m tired. Thanks, Simon, for looking after me.’

‘What did they want? What did they do that scared you so badly?’

‘It’s nothing. Just some history, some stuff I didn’t really deal with very well. It’s fine. Look, thanks, truly, but I’m knackered. I think I’ll turn in.’

‘You’re not joining us for the staff drinks tonight?’

She didn’t know how she kept a lid on it, how she managed not to laugh her contempt until she died laughing so hard she forgot to breathe. ‘Not tonight, Simon. I’m going to turn in.’

‘Okay,’ he flashed her an avuncular look. ‘If you’re sure you’re fine.’

‘Never,’ she averred, hanging on to the door as he passed her into the corridor, ‘better.’

She closed the door behind him, leaning back against it and shutting out the world. She fought the urge to laugh; the hysteria bubbled under.

Robyn took refuge in normalcy. She sat for a little while and gathered herself, then forced herself up to clean up the little puddle of puke. She cleaned out and remade the fire, lighting it and letting the umber warmth flood the room. She took the half-drunk red from the fridge and poured herself a wide-bottomed glass, enjoying the cool fruitiness and the warm rounded aftertaste. It lulled her and she sat on the cushion holding her glass and gazing into the flickering flames.

Robyn woke filled with a sense of evil. Something called to her, drew her and yet she felt no need to move towards the source of the badness. She knew all she had to do was stay still, act normally and the wrong would come to her and intrude.

Invade.

She wasn’t in her bed. The momentary disorientation of waking caught her, she wasn’t even in her apartment. She staggered, propping herself up with her hand against the trunk of a tree, the bark rough against her palm. Her other hand found the trunk, traced the craggy skin.

A tree. She was standing at the edge of the woods looking out onto the downs and the shape of the white tower on the headland reflected in the waning moonlight. She could hear the rhythm of the sea against the beach and, further away, splashing against the cliffs. The trees rustling behind her. She was cold. Christ, she was
barefoot
. Wearing a dressing gown. She clawed at the bark in an attempt to make some sense of this.

And it was there, inside her, the Void. She had been there again but somehow she had managed to get here and she felt totally lost and vulnerable in a way that even the Void didn’t explain or let her understand. She turned away from the tower to face the dark woods, the lights of the Institute visible at the far end of the woodland. She started to walk back, aware of the dank carpet of leaf mould under her feet, twigs digging into her sensitive arches.

She held on to trees for support, swinging between them, her palms streaked with lichen stains. The moonlight, still strong, picked out the boles as grey pillars. Home was nearby, warmth and a return to the anchor of her apartment, her own smells and environment. She could leave the strangeness behind, tree by tree, swinging like an Orang-utan. It almost became a game before the smell assailed her. She faltered, trying to place it before realising it came from the Void. She knew this smell.

She stumbled into a tiny clearing. The moonlight beamed down into the centre of it. She approached the bundle of rags in the centre, the stench assaulting her nostrils. Drawn to it, her mind started to protest. Her feet padding on the soft leaves, she fought to hold herself back. It was a corpse.

Oh God, not that.

It was a girl, a woman. She lay on her back, the moonlight bathing her face. The eye sockets were black, caved in. The skin was papery, mottled. Things moved, myriad things. Maggots, squirming. The face was Robyn’s, staring sightlessly up into the heavens. She tore her gaze away, already retching. Martin Oakley’s slight figure stood at the edge of the clearing.

She fled. Twigs slashed at her face. Sightless, she ran into a tree, a glancing blow that tumbled her to the moist earth. She fought the urge to dig her fingers into the leaf mould and let herself be consumed by the soil and enrich it in turn, become one with its warm embrace. She staggered to her feet and finally burst through into the open garden, the grass slippery with the onset of the morning’s dew. She found the fire escape, heaving herself up on the railing. Sure enough, the window was open and Robyn girded herself for the short scramble up into her apartment. She could feel the warmth from it escaping as she was arrested by the glint from the corner above her. Looking up, she stared into the tiny black lens of the newly-installed security camera.

With a heave, she fell to the floor of her apartment, leaves and dirt streaking the wooden planking. Making a last superhuman effort, she pulled the window towards her and wrenched the catch closed.

Falling backwards onto the floor, she hunched up and cried until the tears simply stopped coming and merciful darkness claimed her.

THIRTEEN

On The Game

Robyn dragged herself out of bed and showered for a very long time under a very hot shower. She used the Bulgari green tea shampoo she had been saving since stealing it from a ridiculously expensive hotel room during a brief and ill-fated liaison which had taken place in another lifetime and on another continent.

Thank God she’d been left with her memories from before the Void. She let the water batter down on her shoulders, flexing them to let her muscles tauten. She was out of shape, too. The animal sensations of musculature, joints and her reddened skin brought her back into a physical connection with life, much as her drive around the shabby race track had connected her back to the world she cherished, a world of here and now without the fear and trauma that lay behind her blacked out memories.

She dressed and went downstairs to make herself coffee. Fridays meant no class, just planning to do and, truth be told, she did little enough planning now she had established the successful format of letting her students’ intellectual journeys guide them in their learning together. She wondered what her two classes would be like on Monday now she had driven a wedge between them by bringing their unresolved pasts into unwelcome scrutiny.

The stark truth was they had no parents, these kids. And they didn’t even know what that meant, because they’d grown up in this strange environment being hot-housed since they could open their eyes and take milk. She wondered at what stage the infants were transferred from the Mayview Clinic to the Institute. Was there a nursery school?

It hadn’t occurred to her. There was no evidence of one, and yet if this project was an ongoing concern, surely there were new generations being raised. Better kids, improvements on this first generation of experiments. Smart iKid 2.0.

She shuddered and tried to put the thought out of her mind; she had promised herself a day of positive thinking, not brooding on the wrong things around her. But sipping her coffee, curled up on the orange cushion, her thoughts wandered back to it. Was the nursery over the fence at the Research Institute? Did the little children get more intense scrutiny and perhaps treatments? It would make sense; the formative years were the most important in the development of the brain. If you were going to embark on an aggressive regime of augmentation therapies, early years was the time to really go for it. You could afford to perhaps relax a little after that, focus on developing the cognitive utilisation of the augmented mind.

She laughed out loud at herself. Pretentious? Moi? She drained her coffee and pulled on her coat. Time for a walk. She pulled her cigarettes out of the kitchen drawer.

Fags and lighter in pocket, she went downstairs and flashed her card at the sensor panel, pushed open the door and gasped at the first belt of cold. About to head to the right, through the car park and past reception to strike into the woods and down to the beach, she carried straight ahead on a whim. The guard on the Research Institute gate saw her and was warily polite. ‘Morning miss.’

‘I want to go in. I need to see my pupil.’

‘You can contact her through reception, Miss. I can’t let you through. You know that.’

‘I demand you allow me through.’

He tried not to laugh at her, but she caught the hint of contempt in his face. She had no more authority to demand access of him than a fly had to demand mercy from the front of a truck. The truth of it stung her and she let her anger rule.

‘Get out of my fucking way.’ She elbowed past him. He caught her arm and pulled her back with surprising force. She tried to shove him and he shoved her right back.

‘I’ll file a complaint about your brutality.’

‘You be my guest. But you’re not going through.’

She stormed away from him, striking out through the car park and along the path down to the sea. The salty air was fresh, making her blink and avert her face. The waves crashed against the pebbles lining the beach. High tide.

Robyn sat down on the bank of pebbles between the strand and the downs. She wrenched the rubber bands from her packet and lit a cigarette, cupping her hands to stop the wind blowing out the flame from her lighter.

Gazing along the beach, the four colours and textures formed a long striation; sea, sand, pebble, grass. Knocking her eyes out of focus turned the scene into four sweeping strokes, the sky grey above and the white tower a quick dab of the skilful brush, another drag of bunched hair against rough canvas perhaps for the cliffs.

She pulled luxuriantly on her cigarette. The morning had brought a bleak awakening and she had lain curled up in her warm bed for over an hour, turning her life around in her mind and contemplating whether the best thing to do would be just to give up and tumble herself into the Void forever. Give herself up to it. Join it.

She wondered if turning her back on that course was brave or weak. But turn her back on it she had,

Now, sitting in peace by the sea, she regretted her flare-up at the guard. He’d almost certainly report her this time, even if he hadn’t last. Robyn pushed the butt of her cigarette deep into the damp sand between the pebbles, getting sand under her fingernail and absently cleaning it out, nail in nail.

Would they sack her, like they had Emily Gray? In a way, she’d welcome it. The apartment had become something of an anchor for her, but the Hamilton Institute was drawing her back to the place she had come from before London and those trauma counselling group sessions, before meeting Mariam and finding a reason to live again.