The Uninvited (27 page)

I say, ‘Pyjama Girl dreamed about a
beautiful white desert that sparkled.
She said it looked like Heaven.’

‘If it is, it’s a salty one. What have you come up with on that front?’

I glance at my notes. ‘The fact that salt’s been very dynamic of late. Salt levels in most oceans have increased dramatically over the last fifty years. But even more so in the last three or four. There are many countries that are reporting massive crystal deposits inland because much of the water table is salt-laden. Farmers have been battling it for years. It comes to the surface by capillary transport and when it evaporates, you have whole deserts of it. In South Australia there are already millions of hectares where nothing will grow. They call it the White Death.’ The professor shifts in his chair and winces in pain. He slipped a disc after Helena died. It must have left a legacy. I think for a moment. ‘According to the renal specialist who looked at Svensson’s autopsy, supernumerary kidneys are increasingly common in coastal regions. Freddy said something about having a different kind of blood. That makes me wonder if he’s sensing a physical anomaly in himself which he interprets as haematological. Or if he’s imagining it so vividly that it feels real. So let’s hypothesise that the two affected groups believe they belong in a highly saline environment. Meaning they crave salt, and express a psychosomatic withdrawal reflex when it’s absent.’

‘It’s not altogether outlandish,’ says Professor Whybray. ‘We’re talking about dramatically altered states, after all. You just have to look at them to see something radical has occurred to their whole mental landscape. No reason why that shouldn’t have repercussions on the whole system. In fact, it might even be odd if it didn’t. My feeling is, if we can work out
where
these children believe they are, we’ll get to the bottom of
who
they are. Or rather, who they
think
they are. And who they think
we
are. Because it’s quite clear we’re two quite different tribes.’ One side of his mouth twists upward. ‘Each of which believes its own reality to be the supreme one. Quite a metaphysical conundrum.’

‘When Freddy talked about Jonas Svensson’s death, he said,
You made us be born and then you made us live like that
,’
I say.

‘So who was the
you
referring to?’

‘I don’t know. That’s just the—’ I stop and blink. And then I see it. Of course. I open my laptop and pull up the Venn in which I’ve attempted to connect the sabotage cases. ‘This diagram. It’s a maelstrom. Too many overlaps.’ I point to the jumble of circles. ‘The world of industry, the world of economics, the world of work.
Everything’s
interconnected. So any one of them might be the universal. But if you look at it from a child’s point of view, it’s obvious.’ I pause as the realisation blossoms and spreads. I should have seen it before. ‘It’s the world of adults. Grown-ups. They’re Us. And we’re Them. Sunny Chen said
they hate us.
When he said
they,
I think he meant children.’

‘Which leads us to what conclusion?’ asks Professor Whybray.

I think for a moment. ‘That an unknown proportion of the world’s pre-teens have developed not just a group consciousness, but a cultural narrative in which they see their own survival as dependent on the destruction of a contemporary adult world.’

‘And that this collective will is trying to force some monumental paradigm shift in mankind’s relationship to itself. As a species?’

There’s a shift in the atmosphere between us. A tightening. A recognition.

On the way out Professor Whybray claps a hand on my shoulder. ‘Good work, boy.’

I smile. ‘I’m thirty-six.’

‘Well has the thirty-six-year-old boy got his car keys?’

‘Isn’t it too early for your meeting?’ It isn’t until two. Afterwards he’ll be joining me and Ashok at Phipps & Wexman.

‘Yes. But there’s something I want to show you. Call it fieldwork.’

Ten minutes later I’m at the wheel, and he’s strapping himself in.

‘Just like the old days, eh?’ he says.

I don’t reply. It isn’t like the old days at all. We never did any fieldwork together. If, on the other hand, he is referring to our visits to the hospital all those years ago, the analogy is wide of the mark. Helena is dead and the professor has a new life in Toronto and the world we once knew has changed beyond all recognition. I start the ignition. We drive in silence. After 1.3 miles I break it by asking Professor Whybray if Toronto is still a city after his own heart.

He slaps his knees. ‘Excellent: a personal question. Unprompted. Yes, son. I enjoy Toronto more than ever.’ Fired up, he enthuses about the metro system, the parks, the rich cultural life, the wide mix of races. And a ‘charming, elegant and extremely well-read’ lady auctioneer, whom he regularly meets for lunch at the Art Gallery of Ontario. ‘I know what I said when Helena died,’ he says. ‘And it remains true. But I didn’t bank on new things happening. Different, but just as enriching in their way.’ He smiles. ‘But then that’s life, is it not, Hesketh? Expect the unexpected. And then adapt. It would seem a wise adage under the circumstances. Yet I note that in the midst of all this, you are still the same Hesketh.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re obeying the speed limit.’

‘It’s the law.’ But he has a valid point. Apart from army trucks, police cars, cyclists and the odd taxi, the streets we’re driving on are empty. Speeding cars will not be a high priority for the police. ‘Force of habit,’ I say.

‘But are you really still the same Hesketh?’ he asks. ‘I’m talking about how life has treated you on the personal front.’

‘I thought Ashok filled you in.’

‘You know how I feel about secondary reports.’

The rain starts up again and I turn on the windscreen wipers. Their rhythm and the fact that we are not face to face helps me to tell him the story of the last three years. About meeting Kaitlin, and our life together, and how it ended. How I never planned on being a father. Or technically speaking a common-law stepfather. Or to be even more precise, a common-law ex-stepfather. If such a thing exists. If her legally trained brain were still functional, Kaitlin would be able to offer clarification.

How Freddy changed my life, and how I fear losing him.

‘These times are a true test of parenthood,’ he says, when I have finished. ‘And also of all the other bonds that link the generations. Not many are up to it. I think you’re probably one of the few, Hesketh. Hold on to that.’

We’ve reached the centre now. It’s as deserted as the rest of London. The rain has eased off, and the sky is both bright and dark. There’s a double rainbow ahead, with one foot in Covent Garden, the other to the west. The colours pulse, as if breathing. Near Waterloo Bridge Professor Whybray touches me on the arm and points.

‘Over there.’

On the other side of the river is a muddy sandbank dotted with the small figures of children. I count fifteen, but there may be more hidden in the shadows of the bridge. Some are up to their thighs in the river, peering into its brown water, as if searching for something. Others squat near the river’s edge, their bare hands thrust deep into the muddy sand. Some can’t be older than six. Their clothes are soaked through and streaked with mud. Two are stark naked. It’s low tide. You can smell the river’s heavy organic stench.

He says, ‘Cross the bridge and we’ll take a closer look.’ I hesitate. I can see six more children now. Twenty-one.

‘You knew they’d be here?’

He smiles. ‘I work for the Home Office, remember. We’re tracking hundreds of groups. As are other . . . organisations. This group’s being picked up later this afternoon. Come on, boy. Time for some fieldwork. The real thing.’

I park on the bridge, which is deserted except for an empty bus. Together we descend the steps. The rain is coming down harder now.

‘Hey!’ calls a male voice. I glance up: a bulky cagouled figure is standing on the broad concrete walkway above us.

‘Watch out, there’s Creatures down there!’ he calls, pointing.

‘That’s why we’re here. We’re doing a government survey in this area,’ the professor calls back. ‘Thanks for the warning, but it’s fine. We’re armed.’ Armed? I am always amazed at how people I respect can become skilled liars at the drop of a hat.

‘We’ve got our own information if you want to take a look,’ calls the man. He’s waving a map.

‘Best keep it separate,’ says the professor. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

‘Well you take care there. I’ll keep an eye,’ says the man. ‘There’s backup if you need it.’

‘That’s most kind. Much appreciated!’ calls the professor. When we are out of earshot he murmurs, ‘Like I said. They’re getting organised.’

‘Vigilantes?’

He shrugs. ‘You can call them that. But they tend to call themselves the public.’

‘Why don’t they leave it to the army?’

‘Would you, if you knew that the Forces aren’t any less vulnerable to sabotage than the rest of the community? All it takes is for one soldier to run amok with a gun. There was an incident yesterday. An officer with a stack of hand grenades. Five people killed. It’s impossible to keep a lid on these things. I’m afraid word’s already spread. In these circumstances social networking’s more a curse than a blessing.’

As we approach, a couple of the children glance up at us, then turn back to their activities, in the same way that grazing cows do when you enter a field. Engrossed in the business of food-gathering, they display neither fear nor interest. It’s no more than ten degrees centigrade, but they don’t seem to feel the cold. Every now and then, one of them starts humming, and there’s an occasional cry or grunt, but otherwise they are a silent group. They look peaceful and peaceable. To describe them as ‘happy’ or ‘contented’ might be going too far. But they give an impression of innocence. Not childhood innocence, but the innocence of wildlife.

We’ve descended the concrete steps and now we’re level with them. We are only a couple of metres away from the closest child, a little girl of about nine with red curls and freckles. She’s squatting in the sand in front of a deep hole she has dug. With a pleased little squeak she pulls out a sand-worm and shoves it in her mouth. You can hear the grit crunch between her teeth as she chews.

‘Fascinating parallels,’ murmurs the professor. A boy a little further off snatches something from the air and slams it to his mouth. The rain sets up harder, plastering his hair to his face. He tips his head back and opens his mouth, drinking the rainwater as it falls. We’re getting soaked. I pull up the collar of my jacket. Suddenly, I have a clear picture of how two worlds can occupy the same space. Parallel existences. Minimal awareness. I glance up at the South Bank walkway: the cagouled sentry nods back. He’s been joined by a second man, who also nods.
Keeping an eye.
I am not ungrateful for their presence.

‘I’m curious about their speech capability,’ murmurs the professor. ‘Let’s find out. Come on.’ We approach the group with small steps, and soon we are right in the midst of them. The rain continues to pour down. They pay it no heed, except to occasionally tip back their heads to drink, like the first boy we observed. Our height is a hindrance: on a signal from the professor, we crouch down so we are at their eye level. I notice that the little girl with red hair has turned to look at him. I nudge him and he takes a look. He catches the girl’s eye and smiles.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks. But she makes no answer and goes back to her digging.

‘Fuck off,
lap-sap
,’ says a boy quietly. We swing round. He’s skinny and dark-haired. The professor’s face changes. Another boy, who is standing knee-deep in the water, looks up. ‘Fuck off,
lap-sap
,’ the first boy repeats. The second boy copies him. The intonation is exactly the same, almost like something uttered automatically in response to an adult presence. Then from all around, a low humming sets up. First one voice, then another, then a whole chorus. A throaty, tuneless wall of sound. I remember the girl on the skyscraper in Dubai, before de Vries jumped. I say urgently, ‘Professor Whybray. We should go. Now.’

He sighs. ‘Frustrating. But I suppose you’re right. Let’s take it slow and easy.’

That’s when I see that the red-haired girl is right next to him. Suddenly, she reaches out her small mud-flecked hand and slips it into his. He stops, clearly astonished. ‘Well look at this!’ he smiles, swinging their joined hands in delight. But within seconds it becomes clear that it’s not companionship she’s after. It’s something else. With her other hand, she starts fingering the cuff of his shirt, as if trying to roll up his sleeve. ‘What do you want?’ he asks her. ‘Do you want to come along with us? You can come and stay at the Unit. And your friends too.’

She has undone the button, pushed up his sleeve and is now examining his forearm. It’s not clear why it’s of such interest to her. Then she lowers her face to it and sniffs.

‘Let’s go,’ I urge. ‘This is a potentially volatile situation.’

But the professor doesn’t move. He’s fascinated. Or enchanted. The little girl opens her mouth to reveal her small tongue and gently, but insistently, she begins to lick his skin. Still no movement from the professor. He’s watching her intently. ‘She’s after the salt,’ he whispers.