Lullaby (16 page)

‘Theo's dead?'

And somehow, it was as if I'd always known, as if there had never been any other
possibility.

‘I'm so very sorry.' She didn't look sorry. She looked excited, the way I imagine
Doctor Huxley must have looked. I wondered if they had already opened the champagne.

I imagined it: his face red with sodden veins, looking down at the press contingent,
spinning my loss into his victory.

‘We will help you with all the necessary arrangements. For now there is nothing you
need to worry about, but getting well. This was, of course, a significant procedure.
We'll keep you here at first, just until we're confident you're ready to return to
your normal life.

‘And Theo? Can I just…'

‘It's not possible, I'm afraid.'

The first hint of sympathy. For a moment I thought she might hug me. She offered
me a tissue.

‘I'm sorry, I don't mean to…'

‘You've no need to apologise.'

My eyes felt dry, despite the tears. The paper tissue rasped at them.

‘Can I have a mirror, please?' I asked.

‘I don't know if you really want…'

She didn't understand. She wasn't a twin.

I had to hold the mirror in my outstretched hand to see the extent of the damage.
My head was swathed in white bandages, as if I'd been dragged from the set of a cheap
horror movie. My eyes were an angry scribble of red, the skin around them darkly
bruised. I thought of Theo, wondered if they'd bothered bandaging him. He looked
back at me from the mirror, the way it had always been.

The doctor watched me, and normally that would have made me self-conscious, but there
was no normal in that room. I drew the mirror to my lips, kissed him. Whispered,
‘Goodbye.'

She waited the polite length of time, then gently took the mirror from my hands.

‘Is there anybody you want to talk to? Our psychologist, Maggie, has come in today.'

‘Is Emily here?' I asked. I was vaguely aware I should have been feeling something
more than this slow inward collapse.

‘Yes,' the surgeon said. ‘She is waiting to see you. An orderly is on his way.

‘I'd like to walk. Is that possible?'

‘We can try, if you like.'

The orderly was short and wide. He helped me out of bed. There was a wheelchair waiting
by the door.

‘He'd like to try to walk,' the surgeon explained. The orderly nodded, and held my
elbow to steady me. My legs shook, the feet were slow to respond, as if they didn't
belong to me at all. I shrugged him off. It felt right, to be stumbling alone. It
was less than ten metres along the corridor to the waiting-room door, but I could
see I'd have to do it in stages. My vision blurred, came clear, blurred again. A
drop of sweat escaped my bandages and stung at my eye. I leaned against the wall.
The orderly moved towards me, but I waved him away. I straightened, breathed in deeply
and felt a crackling in my ribs.
My hand went instinctively to the point of pain.
I remembered.

She must have heard me coming. She'd moved out into the corridor. Her face was set
in a smile neither of us could believe. My fingers moved up slowly, from my ribs
to under my arm. I found the spot where the blade had been, traced its line with
my fingers. The skin was perfectly smooth, unblemished.

Something made me turn. Somehow, I knew he was there. A glimpse, then another orderly,
realising his mistake, trying to get between us. The lying bastards. I wanted to
call out, but I couldn't find my voice, and then he was being dragged away, we both
were.

I screamed out my protest, but too late for him to hear me. Emily moved forward to
comfort me, but I pushed her away.

I struggled against the orderly's grip, but the operation had left me weak.

Then more orderlies arrived, security too, shouting their instructions, swarming
all over us. They tore me apart.

A voice came to me, a memory not my own.

When this is done, what stories shall we tell ourselves?

I'm told there were fifteen surgeons involved in the procedure, working in shifts
of five. The head of one of the teams, a man in his fifties with his grey hair tied
back the way my mother used to wear it, delivered the news. By then I'd been knocking
on the door of wakefulness for hours, struggling to sort the remembered from the
dreamt, the fantastic from the necessary. Not yet lucid enough to scream.

‘Hello Rene, how are you?'

‘My head hurts.'

‘There'll be more painkillers coming soon.'

‘What happened?' I asked.

‘We were able to get a good copy of your data, Rene. That part was tremendously successful.
The whole team is delighted.'

‘And Theo?'

His eyes dipped. ‘We managed the transfer, there were strong initial signs that the
connectome embedded, but we experienced complications. There was stem damage that
hadn't been apparent in the initial scans. Related to the electrical shock.
But we've
learned more than we expected. Your contribution to medical history, your brother's
contribution, it won't be forgotten.'

‘Theo's dead?'

And somehow, it was as if I'd always known, as if there had never been any other
possibility.

‘I'm so very sorry.' He didn't look sorry. He looked excited, the way I imagine Doctor
Huxley must have looked. I wondered if they had already opened the champagne.

I imagined it: his face red with sodden veins, looking down at the press contingent,
spinning my loss into his victory.

‘We will help you with all the necessary arrangements. For now there is nothing you
need to worry about, but getting well. This was, of course, a significant procedure.
We'll move you to a recovery facility, until we're confident you're ready to return
to your normal life.'

‘And Theo? Can I just…'

‘It's not possible, I'm afraid.'

The first hint of sympathy. For a moment I thought he might hug me. He offered me
a tissue.

‘I'm sorry, I don't mean to…'

‘You've no need to apologise.'

My eyes felt dry, despite the tears. The paper tissue rasped at them.

‘Can I have a mirror, please?' I asked.

‘I don't know if you really want…'

He didn't understand. He wasn't a twin.

I had to hold the mirror in my outstretched hand to see the extent of the damage.
My head was swathed in white bandages, as if I'd been dragged from the set of a cheap
horror movie. My eyes were an angry scribble of red, the skin around them darkly
bruised. I thought of Theo, wondered if they'd bothered bandaging him. He looked
back at me from the mirror, the way it had always been.

The doctor watched me, and normally that would have made me self-conscious, but there
was no normal in that room. I drew the mirror to my lips, kissed him. Whispered,
‘Goodbye.'

He waited the polite length of time, then gently took the mirror from my hands.

‘Is there anybody you want to talk to? Our psychologist, Maggie, has come in today.'

‘Is Emily here?' I asked. I was vaguely aware I should have been feeling something
more than this slow inward collapse.

‘No,' the surgeon said. ‘She has requested a
little time to get used to this. An
orderly is on his way to take you to the transfer bay.

‘I'd like to walk. Is that possible?'

‘We can try, if you like.'

The orderly was thin and tired looking. He helped me out of bed. There was a wheelchair
waiting by the door.

‘He'd like to try to walk,' the surgeon explained. The orderly nodded, and held my
elbow to steady me. My legs shook, the feet were slow to respond, as if they didn't
belong to me at all. I shrugged him off. It felt right, to be stumbling alone. It
was less than ten metres along the corridor to the lifts, but I could see I'd have
to do it in stages. My vision blurred, came clear, blurred again. A drop of sweat
escaped my bandages and stung at my eye. I leaned against the wall. The orderly moved
towards me, but I waved him away. I straightened, breathed in deeply and felt a crackling
in my ribs. My hand went instinctively to the point of pain. I remembered.

My fingers moved up slowly, from my ribs to under my arm. I found the spot where
the blade had been, traced its line with my fingers. The skin
was still rough from
Emily's blade, as I knew it would be.

Something made me turn. Somehow, I knew he was there. A glimpse, then another orderly,
realising his mistake, trying to get between us. The lying bastards. I wanted to
call out, but I couldn't find my voice, and then he was being dragged away, we both
were.

I screamed out my protest, but too late for him to hear me.

I struggled against the orderly's grip, but the operation had left me weak. For a
moment I broke loose and stumbled forward. I was sure I saw Emily, her hand on his
arm, breaking my heart in two.

Then more orderlies arrived, security too, shouting their instructions, swarming
all over us. They tore me apart.

A voice came to me, a memory.

When this is done, what stories shall we tell ourselves?