Rose Ella sat up. She pulled the duvet up over herself. She sat there staring, ice cold. Milena began to sense at last that something was horribly wrong.
‘Milena! What are you doing?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Milena truthfully.
It was said of the orphans that they were sexually advanced. Some of them, after all, were engaged to be married even before Reading. It was said darkly, that some strange things went on in the Gardens, before the orphans were safely Read, safely Placed, safely cured by viruses. Orphans were admired, held up as ideals, the children who became adults first and most completely. They were made ideals in order to help people be less afraid of them.
Orphans reminded people that they would the. Orphans meant their own sudden extinction. Orphans revealed too clearly the forced growth of everyone’s children. People thought the darkness in their own minds was caused by something dark in the minds of the orphans. People feared that orphans would contaminate their own children with precocious thoughts, or sexual adventures. Milena did not know that she had been a test of tolerance.
Rose Ella stood up, still holding the blanket. She jerked it away, from Milena’s grasp. She turned and stalked away. She looked back over her shoulder at Milena. She was crying. She put her hands to her face, and began to walk more quickly. She gave her head a shake. She began to run, over the rubble, hobbling in bare feet.
Milena lay back on the mattress. She let herself realise what had happened. They would say it had happened because she was an orphan. She was an orphan; maybe they were right. They would send her away.
Mala came with her steady smile. Only the smile was strained now, slightly glazed like the grins on the lost porcelain statues.
‘Milena. Hello,’ she said, crouching. ‘You’re very upset by all of this aren’t you?’
Milena was frozen, like some trapped animal. She felt fallen like her tree. She looked at Mala’s knees. She couldn’t bear to look up at her face.
‘You’ve got a lot of problems, Milena. It’s understandable. You’ve lost your parents. And you do have certain disabilities. And we’ve tried to help you with those, for your sake, and to help Rose Ella with her work. And I like to think we’ve done some good. But it’s up to you now, dear. You’re going to have to do some development yourself. You’re going to be Read, and cured of all sorts of things. That’s going to happen very soon now. And, maybe after that, when everything’s settled. Well.’ She paused and touched Milena’s arm, or rather, her sleeve. ‘Well, maybe you would like to come back to see us then.’
‘Where will I go now?’ Milena asked, her voice thin, choked, forlorn.
‘The other orphans are moving into the Medicine. It’s quite a sturdy building. Sturdier than the Row.’ Milena could see the knees twist around to look at the rubble and to regret. Memory of her own grief made Mala more firm.
‘I think you better go now, eh, Milena? Before everyone else starts getting up and wonders why. Here. Here are your boots dear.’
Milena lay still as the boots were forced on her feet.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she whispered.
Mala sighed. ‘I know, dear. But it’s for the best.’
Milena stumbled back through the ruins, as dazed as the last time she was injected with virus, hard virus that had been shoved directly into her veins with a needle. The dosage had nearly killed her. She had thrown up blood. She had tossed on her bed for days, and wandered befuddled for weeks, the genetics of knowledge churning in her head. But even then the viruses did not take hold. The mighty Doctors had examined her, held her flesh in their cold hands and peered at her. They took samples. The mighty Doctors must know why the viruses didn’t work. They had stopped even trying after that final dose: they had stopped making her ill. They left her alone to be unwell in her own way.
And they had sent Rose Ella.
‘And we’ve tried’ said the child bitterly. ‘To help Rose Ella with her work.’
Milena found herself in the lobby of the Medicine.
There were Nurses sitting at a desk. Everything had been swept up or replaced by the children. Everything seemed so smooth and clear. The eyes of the Nurse flitted briefly over Milena. They saw her charcoal hands, the dirty face, the clothes white as it in mourning from the dust of rubble.
‘Ah, good morning, Ms Shibush. Back with us after the storm. That’s good, we have a new work group arranged for you. To prepare you for your Placement. And a nice new room.’
Milena stared at them. Does the room have teeth she wondered, like a shark. Does it bite off fingers as you wander through the ruin of your life, chewing them? Does it grind you with great white molars of rubble? Does your blood ooze underneath the door of this nice, new white room, with the walls that have straps to bolt you down to the bed? ‘I want you to burn me,’ said Milena. ‘I want you to burn everything out of me. I want this burned clear!’ She pressed a finger to her own head. ‘Make me sick,’ she said. ‘Make me ill. Make me as sick with the virus, as much as you can. All of it, all at once, I don’t care if it kills me, just get it inside me.’
And I will be controlled. And I will be neat and clean, and I will keep everything neat and clean, and I will never speak, and I will never show myself again, not to you nor to anyone else.
‘Cure me,’ she demanded.
And she went up to her new room. There was a new bed, as anonymous as her last, and bare walls, and the smell of other room mates. Milena stared at the wall. I hate childhood, she thought. I wish I had never been a child. I want to be old, as old as I can be. Roll on, viruses, roll over me. Come on mathematics, come on Marx and Chao Li Song. Come on logarithms, come all you operas as fixed as the North Star. Come and dance on my head and break it up into rubble. I want to forget.
Milena the would-be adult turned feral. She turned into a hunter. She hunted memory.
No! whispered the adult who was remembering. No! but the voice from the future was too faint.
Milena turned on her self as if with fangs and claws. She pursued her child self through all its hated years in England. She felt the small cool coils and remembered. She had touched such things before and destroyed them. Small cool coils of DNA, DNA that encoded sight and sound, that preserved pain and loneliness and work and waiting.
She sprung memory, as if it were virus. She savaged the coils, rended them apart and let their elements scatter. The memory of her landing in Newhaven on the boat; the death of her mother; the steady learning of the English tongue and the kindly man who had taught it to her; she pounced on them, and ripped them apart in a rage.
She came to the memories of Rose Ella, of home, of the music and the dancing and the book of theatre that Rose Ella’s father had given to her. She held the memories as if in pincers; she felt their weight. She felt them flower in her mind; the sound of the clattering clogs, the lounging in the sun in Russell Square; the row of tiny cannons for firing salutes. She remembered the music of home.
All right, all right, she would let that be. Everything else would be obliterated. The young Restorers on her first day in the Child Gardens; they had gathered around her, calling her Russian out of contempt, damning her with Chao Li Song’s words as she howled for her mother, her mother who was dead. Ah! fond memories of childhood, she thought as she slashed them. Ah my golden years! My bouquet of early life. The years of eating alone; the years of Nurses’ shaking heads. The years of feeling stupid, the years of feeling foreign, the years of silence and dust and the years of her reading as well, all those books, all that work. Milena tore apart her work as well, consigning it to darkness.
No! whispered the future.
The Child Garden was destroyed.
So they made Milena ill again, and this time the viruses won. Milena had no memory of that, either. She remembered how she emerged smaller, neater, pale and wan and very quiet, with a continent of knowledge crammed into her head, along with several useful calculating facilities.
‘Well, you were scheduled for your Reading,’ said the Senior Nurse. ‘But we couldn’t send you because you were so ill. We only gave you educational viruses of course. Personality defects can only be cured by Doctors, and they do that after your Reading. I’m sure there will be a Reading arranged for you soon.’ The Senior Nurse smiled, as if to an equal. Milena was now an adult. ‘We’re very glad that the information finally took. It must be paradise for
