Seoul Survivors (29 page)

It was the last Saturday of November. The sky was the color of a dirty dishcloth and the temperature was dropping like an anvil. Damien was in Chamshil, finishing his final class of the day with Yoon So and Young Ha. Outwardly he was reviewing English words for flowers; inside he was sizzling with excitement.

On Monday his savings had hit seventeen and a half million. He'd taken two point five and a passport photo down to Azitoo, where Jake had pocketed the envelope and promised to take it in the morning to the counterfeiter in Itaewon. On Thursday Jake had dropped round to say that the hacker in Canada had found him a ghost identity: a guy called David Harding, who had been dead for three years. If his family hadn't yet reported the fact to the SIN bureau, they weren't ever going to.
Here's to David
, Damien and Jake had toasted with a shared Grolsch. Next Friday he'd get his month's pay from the
hagwon
, another two and a half million, which would make up the twenty he needed for the Canadian passport and SIN card. He'd already told all his jobs he was leaving and would need his last pay on December fifteenth. His landlord had reluctantly agreed to give him back his key-fee a week early; all that money was extra, and would help him set up in Canada.

His plan was to be on a flight to Winnipeg three or four days before the Solstice. Jake had a mate there who'd said Damien could stay in his basement cheap—plus, the guy worked in films, knew Guy Maddin, might be able to get him a job. If not, there was a ton of other work in the province: the oil industry, mining—the Manitoba economy was booming. If the world hadn't been flooded or nuked out of existence by the New Year, Damien fancied working in a music or DVD shop, like he'd done in Brighton back in the day. Or he could eke out his money until the summer, then go tree-planting. Either way, he'd be alive and on dry ground. If snow counted as dry.

So this was a weekend to celebrate. He planned to hit the nightclubs on Saturday, but this evening he was going to the flicks with Sydney. He'd seen her three times since Chusok, always on a Sunday. They'd go for cheap eats, then chat over cups of tea. He told her about his working day; she babbled on about her mad world of
fashionistas and spa treatment meditation courses. She wasn't a religious fanatic, exactly, but she did sometimes go off on strange spiels about forgiveness, higher consciousness, the “detoxification of the human spirit”—basically, it sounded like she spent a few hours a week wrapped up in mud and rose petals, listening to self-help tapes. Still, if it made her smell so nice, who was he to criticize?

At the end of their dates, they'd stand around on the street like a couple of nimbies. Sydney would pause and twirl her hair, he'd mumble something about needing an early night, then she'd swipe him a kiss and hop into a taxi home. Maybe she expected him to hit on her; maybe she liked knowing a bloke who didn't. Whatever; his vow of celibacy was working for him. He had steady energy for his grueling schedule, and he wasn't about to risk knocking everything sideways, especially not for some strange encounter with his own projections of Jessica. He'd decided that apart from that freaky time in the tube, there was something comforting about Sydney's chance resemblance to Jessica. Since he'd met her, even when they weren't together, he felt—well, more
relaxed
, somehow. He did worry about how she was going to cope when the Hammer hit, but she'd told him Da Mi was rich and lived in a gated property up a big hill, so that would give her a better chance of survival than most Seoulites.

Today they were meeting in Shinch'on at half-seven. It was ten to six now, and Young Ha was sprawling over the floor, whining “Finish class, teacher,” when he heard the doorbell chime. This happened countless times a lesson; usually it was Mrs. Lee or the household
ajumma
running errands; occasionally the Japanese tutor arrived early. He paid no particular attention until he heard strange male voices and the
ajumma
protesting; then a robotic panic began grinding in his guts.

“Yoon So, Young Ha,” he hissed, flapping Young Ha's workbook shut and trying to wrest Yoon So's from her hands. “I not teacher, okay? I
Damien
. Friend!
Chingu
, okay?
Chingu
.”

In the scuffle Yoon So scribbled a thick pencil line over her work. She emitted a wail of outrage as behind him, the door burst open. “Teacher not
chingu
. I hate Teacher,” she declared, clutching her copy of Longman's English Workbook Level 3 to her chest.

“Teacher, who? Teacher, who?” Young Ha shrieked as two men in suit jackets and plaid Lacoste shirts surveyed the scene with grim satisfaction.

Damien dropped Young Ha's book on the floor. He was awash in sweat and his whole body was shaking. For a long second, the only sound was his watch clattering against the edge of the table.

“We are from Immigration Office of Korea,” the taller man announced tersely. With his grooved face, jutting jaw and jerky movements he could have played a cyborg in a Terminator film. One that ran on Duracell. “May we see your passport?”

“Passport?” Like an idiot, Damien patted his pockets. “S-s-sorry, I don't have it on me.”

“How long you teach here?” the short, stocky man demanded.

Damien tried to think. He could maintain he was a friend of the family, giving lessons when he came over for dinner—saying you did so because you were Christian sometimes worked, he'd heard—but the details were bound to be checked with Yoon So's parents when they came home, and with Young Ha's, whom he'd never met. He'd also heard that the severity of the deportation order and the amount of the fine depended on how long you'd been working, so he could say one month, but again, if that were found to be a lie, he might be dealt with more harshly. So much rested on Mrs. Lee. Oh shit, what the fuck to do?

Acutely aware that his desire to fly out the window, powerful as it was, should not be mistaken for the ability to do so, Damien opened his mouth. “I have been teaching here”—he cleared his throat—“two months.” The actual figure was in fact closer to five, but he could always insist he had been misheard.

“Come with us now,” Cyborg-head ordered. Damien rose, with dignity, he hoped, though his legs were still shaking and he had to press both palms on the table for support. As soon as he was upright Young Ha dove for his knees, wrapping her arms around them and pressing her face into his thighs.

“No, Teacher, don' go! I frightened, don' go! I love you, Teacher, I love you!”

“I love you too, Sailor Young Ha,” he lied, trying to unclasp her fingers behind him with one hand, patting her head with the other. Where was this unswerving devotion when he wanted her to sit quietly and draw pictures of jungles?

The shorter officer took the girl by the shoulders and spoke to her in Korean. She released her grip, and burst into tears.

“Don't cry, Young Ha,” he cajoled. “I come back soon.” He knew this was extremely unlikely, but better to let her think he had been
arrested and murdered and bear a grudge against Korean officials forever; such dissent would do the country good.

“Goodbye, Yoon So. Tell your mother goodbye,” he said as the taller officer twisted his arms behind his back and clapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

Yoon So was studiously erasing the pencil mark on her work. She didn't look up.

Usually the elevator came right away and was empty. Today, because he was in handcuffs and sweat was streaming unchecked down his temples, it took ten minutes to arrive and was occupied by a respectable elderly couple.

Who knows
, he thought,
maybe they turned me in, and witnessing my abjection is part of their reward.

The officers were drilling their thumbs into his shoulders. In retaliation, he flipped his hair, hoping that his sweat would fling into the men's eyes or spatter their shirts. But neither gave any indication of even having noticed.

Fuck, why had he lulled himself into believing the area was safe?
All he'd ever done to protect himself was to occasionally vary his route to the building entrance—there were a laughable two to choose from—and to warn Yoon So's mother that if anyone came to the door, not to answer it, or to say he was just a friend. She had giggled when he explained this plan, which he had chosen to interpret as meaning that she knew more than he did and the danger was minimal. Wrong; it actually meant she was a useless nincompoop: she hadn't even briefed the
ajumma
not to open the door to strangers. Everyone knew that unless immigration officials had a warrant—which they never did on the first visit—it simply wasn't necessary to let them set foot in the place.

Damien pressed his hands closer together so the cuffs would stop cutting into his wrists. The elevator juddered to a halt. He wanted to scream. Everything was fucked now, seriously, permanently fucked. It wasn't like these guys would just fine him, let him renew his passport and kick him out of the country, no, he knew how this worked: you weren't allowed to just leave. You were
deported
, which meant flying back to the UK, to a sea of nuclear radiation, to a big fat
DING
at passport control, a hairy-knuckled hand on the shoulder, a beige waiting room and an officer with an A4 file headed
Damien Meadows
.

The elevator disgorged him, his captors and the elderly voyeurs into the lobby. To compound his humiliation, Damien tripped as
he passed the building manager, another likely stool-pigeon, who watched with an impassive air as the trio trooped by. With a brusque grip, Immigration Android steered Damien out into the parking lot, toward—not the anonymous gray Hyundai he had always imagined Immigration Officers sitting in, drinking from flasks and waiting for hapless foreigners to lope by—but a genuine regulation black-and-blue paddy wagon.

Every seam was reinforced with painted bolts. Metal grids covered the two small windows on the back doors. Shorty unlocked the back and Immigration Android roughly bundled him in. Five other foreigners turned anxious faces to greet him as the evening light briefly flooded the mobile prison cell.

“They won't keep him,” Da Mi had said firmly. “When they pick people up they just register them on the computer and make them come back the following day with their papers. He'll be out by seven-thirty at the absolute latest.”

But now it was gone nine, and Damien still hadn't called. Looking up from the pair of jeans she was altering, Sydney glanced again at the clock.

The jeans were white hipsters, brand name
nobody
. She'd bought them from a stall at Tongdaemun Market, the all-night bargain-shopping district three miles wide and twenty stories high. Jin Sok had taken her, their first time out together since he'd ruined things with Jae Ho. He'd translated for her, and picked out the newest trends. You weren't allowed to try anything on—how could you in the cramped aisles between the overflowing stalls?—but the salesgirl had deftly held the pair up to Sydney's throat, wrapped the waist around her neck and assured her that they'd fit, and she'd been right. The only problem with the jeans was a long piece of red ribbon stitched on the inside of the waistband. It said
nobody
all the way around, the word printed over and over, upside-down—kinda cool, but the fabric strip irritated her skin. So she was unpicking it with a vengeance. At eleven minutes past nine, her MoPho rang. Damien at last.

“
Yoboseyo
,” she sang brightly, with just a hint of fake annoyance. Da Mi had said it would be good practice for her to use some acting skills. She would need them later, playing the Queen at the VirtuWorld banquets. They'd spent a whole session in the Chair preparing her for tonight's little drama. She was still nervous—she hadn't liked to tell Da Mi, but she'd got to like Damien lately. He was laid-back,
kind and funny—and surprisingly into theme parks. In a way, it was a shame Da Mi couldn't just make him the offer up front. Now that he and Sydney were getting on so well, he'd probably say yeah.

But Da Mi didn't want to take any risks, and Sydney had to respect that. Also, this was her one chance to help Da Mi out, repay her for everything she'd done for her—and to help Damien out too, she reminded herself. Sure, being arrested couldn't have been fun, but he
was
going to get a big wad of money out of the deal.

“
Yo.Bo.Sa.Yo
.” Damien's voice was a grim staccato. “Sydney, sorry I stood you up, but I got picked up by Immigration today.”

“You're shitting me!” That was a key line; she'd decided to use it, quite spontaneously, while she was in the Chair, and then Da Mi had programmed her unconscious to accept it as a trigger to genuine empathy. Now she'd said it, she wouldn't have to worry about sounding fake.

“Wish I was.”

“Oh, Damien—what happened?”

“I was at my privates in Chamshil. They only burst into the playroom, handcuffed me and frog-marched me to a paddy-wagon. My wrists are killing me.”

“You're hurt?” Sydney's stomach contracted. She shifted in her chair. Perhaps the uncomfortable sensation in her guts was just part of feeling Damien's pain.

“Yeah, well, apparently it's a serious charge, offending the Korean economy.”

That was the old Damien poking through; she grinned in relief.

“I guess.” She pulled at one of the threads attaching the
nobody
strip to the jeans. “But what happened at the station?”

Damien sounded weary again. “They fingerprinted me and took mug-shots—then they came back to my place, confiscated my passport and downloaded my MoPho.”

“Downloaded your
MoPho
?”

“Contacts, phone-log, saved texts, the works. But don't worry, if they phone you, just don't answer. They're really only interested in my employers.”