The Testament of Jessie Lamb (15 page)

I'd walked
to
the clinic from the station, but now I could barely stand up straight. My heart was kicking my ribcage like a footballer; booting me, thwacking me, so I nearly overbalanced. I leant against the bus-shelter and tried to breathe steadily: in, out, in, out, trying to order the
thing
in my chest to stop pummelling me. I cupped my hands around my mouth and captured my warm breath, pretending it was Sal's panic-attack paper bag. Sucked the used air back into my lungs. Once Dad took the bag Sal had finished with, scrunched it around his lips and blew it up then burst it like a balloon, bang. Enough to give you a panic if you didn't have one already. I switched on my mobile and stared at it while the light came on. No messages.

I told myself I could walk. If I walked fast I could merge myself into the rushing noise of the street, the streaming traffic, the sirens blaring up from the distance, drowning me out then dwindling away, being overlapped by the next one coming up. The faster I walked the more my heart would have to beat in time, it couldn't just leap about like a demented frog; after all, it had a job to do.

A man was making a little moaning noise at the edge of the pavement. I saw his feet as I hurried past; women's suede ankle boots with fur at the cuffs. All those men, I wished they could vanish, take their misery and simply vanish. I hated walking past empty houses. Windows smashed, doors kicked in, someone'd made a bonfire in one front garden and there was a half burnt sofa with its springs uncoiling. I pulled my hat down over my eyebrows, turned my collar up and walked faster. I was practically running. From the next corner the houses were inhabited, with pruned hedges and security shutters, so I could slow down.

That's when the thought of it finally registered, warming me inside like a hot little secret that I'd swallowed; a glowing roasted chestnut. I'd done it! I'd really truly done it!

Too late I spotted the road block ahead. Once they've seen you they're suspicious if you turn back. I waited behind a woman with a Co-op bag, she was impatient and kept trying to attract the police-woman's attention. But the police woman was searching a weirdo and concentrating quite hard because he was trying to touch her. ‘Hold your hands out straight please sir. Straight.' And, ‘Keep your hands to yourself sir, thank you.'

She was skimming over the surface of his clothes, he could have had a bomb belt and she'd never even have noticed. She just wanted to get rid of him. The lady before me said, ‘It's just shopping, Officer. I need to get back, my grand-daughter will be waking up–' The policewoman nodded her through. And then of course felt she had to justify herself so she took all the stuff out of my bag and flicked through the pages of every book and folder before telling me to put them back. All the warmth I'd generated was draining away, and I felt like crying. Or asking her, could I stay in her little cabin for the afternoon, hide myself away there until I knew what I felt?

It started drizzling again, icy little needles against my skin. At the station I checked the board for the Ashton train, and walked across the grimy forecourt to the stairs for platform 4. A strange feeling crept into my head, of how many hundred times I must have been there, smelling that dry bitter station smell, with the loop of stupid announcements about unattended personal belongings being destroyed and the roaring clatter of trains and beeps of opening doors and the cracked slippery-when-wet floor with its yellow warning triangles, and of how I always hurried through it trying not to hear or see or smell its ugliness. What would it be like to never see it again? You wouldn't want to see it, it's horrible. But if you thought you were never going to see it again, you might not want to block it out.

I pulled myself together. Checked the mobile. Climbed the steps to the bridge and then down to my platform. But I was staring at each person I passed; I was thinking, I don't know you and I'll probably never see you again in my life. It was weird to imagine there being no possibility, ever, of getting to know even one of those strangers.

The train came in with its heating blasting away. I flopped into a seat and conjured up the clinic. It was a strong bright core inside me, that no one else could see, like the glowing centre of the earth. It was made up of Mr Golding's clever kindly face and the clarity of what we were going to do and the polished table and the sweet blue scent of hyacinths. It was real. It was in the centre of me, Jessie Lamb. The train clacked along effortfully, I could practically feel the weight it was pulling.

In the clinic we had stared at each other in fascination before Mr Golding came in. It was like we were looking at ourselves; looking at other girls who were going to do it and thinking, now these are my sisters. There were five of us. I liked the girl opposite, she had little black plaits all over her head and she looked up and smiled when I tried to drag my heavy chair across the carpet to the table. The girl at the end was pretending to read.

I recognised Karen from Dad's lab and thought, surely she's too old for this? There was a bowl of blue hyacinths in the middle of the table, reflected in its polished surface like a mirror. Everything in there was so warm and bright I had to rub my eyes. And then Mr Golding and two nurses came in and he was plump and bald and smiley like Humpty Dumpty. He started talking in his foreign accent calmly and kindly telling us everything we need to know. The clinic would safeguard our privacy and we in turn were asked not to tell anyone about our interest in the programme. The nurse switched on a tape recorder, ‘for legal reasons' he told us.

He outlined what happens at implantation. He said in the current situation ‘there are few scenarios which allow hope,' and that this was one of them. And he said we are each making this sacrifice not just for one child, but for all that child's descendants–for the children of the future. The girl near the door started to cry and a nurse took her out.

I spread my hands out on the shining table, and I thought, this is real. This is a place where there is the power to make something real happen. Mr Golding gave us a timetable. If we were still interested we should sign up for a medical. If the medical was OK, our Implanon would be removed. After the medical we'd have a counselling session, to help us think about our reasons and feel confident about our decision, whichever way that went. Finally, there'd be an interview, and we'd be accepted or rejected.

He asked if we had any questions but no-one did. He smiled a twinkly smile and I noticed his bow tie was patterned with blue and green overlapping fish. On anyone else it would be ridiculous, but it was exactly right on him. He has a quick, searching way of looking into each person's face and making you feel as if you have known him for ages. ‘One thing must be crystal clear from the start, ladies. No one has to do this. You understand? All are free to walk away at any time; today, next week, the day before implantation–' he spread his arms wide ‘–is not a problem. You change your mind, I am happy. You are young. The immune system is stronger in the young. So we are looking to the 16 year olds. In some countries, they are going younger still.' He looked at us, then took off his bright round glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘You are young ladies of great courage. The law says you are old enough to have a child. But do not forget that in your parents' eyes
you
are still the child. I ask you to discuss this with the parents, listen to their advice. And now I hand you over to my kind Nurse Garner.' He gave another of his quick, grave little bows and went to the door. Nurse Garner smiled at him and brought her pad to the front of the room; we could sign for the medical if we still thought we might want to volunteer. So I did.

The train whirred madly as if its wheels couldn't engage, then began to pick up proper speed at last. I checked my phone. Nothing. I wondered if Mum would ask where I'd been, and what I would tell her. I had the idea of sending Dad an e mail telling him I'd got important news, and asking him to come home to hear it. I'd tell the pair of them together. How proud he would be!

Oh yes, I remember that, I remember feeling happy at the thought of his coming home. How stupid can a person be?

At home Mum was lying in wait for me and asked if I'd heard from him, so she obviously hadn't. Her face was grey and her eyes were red and I suddenly felt terribly sorry for her. She wanted to know if I'd tried to contact him and when I said yes, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I thought it was just me. If he's not replying to you either–maybe I should call the police.' I was positive he would reply to my e mail. I was full of hope but of course I couldn't tell her why. I suggested waiting one more day before calling the police. As I heard myself calmly saying it and watched Mum twist her face into a pale attempt at a smile, I realised the balance had changed. Like a see saw, when you are the heavier person, and normally go down, down, down, bumping your bum on the ground. Now I was rising up, up, up.
I
was reassuring
her
. A breathless kind of happiness swooped into me, lifting me like a bird. I
knew
I was doing the right thing.

I e mailed him ‘Hi Dad, I know you and Mum have fallen out but I have some really important news. I need to tell you NOW! Please e me straight back, when and where we can meet. Miss you! Xoxo Jess.' I put ‘life and death, honestly' after ‘news', then deleted it again. I wouldn't tell him how sad and angry and worried I'd felt, and in return he wouldn't be mad at me for not telling him what Mum had been up to. The deal was perfectly clear in my head.

After tea Mum went to visit Mand. I wasn't going to check my e mail till the morning. He would reply, I knew he would. I turned on the TV. There was a supposedly healthy pregnant woman in Ethiopia who people had started worshipping. They showed the crowd in the lane outside her hut, with the oranges and sweet potatoes they were bringing her. A little boy answered and gravely accepted the gifts, then the door was firmly shut behind him. The people in the lane knelt down and prayed. They announced that eleven UK volunteers out of thirty who'd been in an MDS research drugs trial had died after an unforeseen complication. Police had stopped a public screening of the FLAME MDS film after fighting broke out between the audience and
Mothers for Life
who were demonstrating against it. I switched the TV off. I could feel the ghost of that angry powerlessness boiling up, then I remembered and laughed with relief. I was doing something, and there was no need to concern myself with all this–idiocy. The pressure in my head whooshed out like steam jetting out the spout of a boiling kettle.

I sat there, staring at the blank screen, hugging the beautiful sharp knife of my secret to me. I was glad I would die because it was the only perfect solution to all this mess and suffering. To imagine it was a soft green garden in the desert; a place of cool and shade.

My phone jangled into the silence–Sal. She had an announcement to make. She wanted to tell me she and her Mum had been discussing something and they had finally decided. They were moving house.

‘Why? Where are you going?'

‘We're moving to Glossop, there's two spare rooms in the FLAME house.'

‘But Sal–how will I see you? Glossop's miles away!'

‘We can get buses. We can meet in Ashton.'

How long would it take them to sell up and move? I realised maybe it wouldn't matter, maybe I'd be gone before they went. ‘Shall I come round?'

‘Yup.'

I was longing to tell her. Mr Golding said not to tell anyone about our interest in the programme, but this was Sal. It felt almost like a present I could give her–a sweet slice of calm, a promise of peace. For a crazy moment I imagined that when I told her, she'd say ‘Fantastic! I'll volunteer too, we'll do it together!' I knew it would make her feel better from the fury that was eating her.

When I saw her it wasn't so easy. She was tight and sharp, thin as a stick and dressed in black. Her house felt cold and I was shocked when we went up to her room, to see empty shelves, and boxes stacked against the wall. ‘When are you going?'

‘Soon. This week. When Mum can borrow a van.' She cleared stuff off her bed so we could sit. ‘Mum says it'll be cheaper sharing bills with other people.'

‘Right.' I hated the idea of not being able to just trot down the road to hers. I started idly picking up some of the things in the box by her bed. There were toys she'd had when she was little. She gave me her clockwork nun to remember her room by. ‘You moving everything? Is your mum selling the house?'

‘The building society'll take it back.'

‘Why can't she sell it?'

‘Doh, have you seen how many houses there are for sale?'

I knew, of course I knew. There were boarded-up houses everywhere. But I asked, ‘Why are so many for sale?'

‘All the dead women.'

‘But their husbands and kids still need houses.'

‘You don't think any single mothers died? You think young kids can stay home alone?'

Sal's mum was a single mother, but Sal never used to be so spiky about it. ‘Sorry.' Dead single mothers wouldn't account for that many empty houses anyway. Perhaps people moving were like Sal and her mum, moving in with other people to save money and to band together. Fearing the worst. Once they knew there was hope again, it would be different. I couldn't stop myself. ‘Sal, have you heard of the frozen embryos?'