Milena stood up, flushed the toilet. The image dissolved, refracted by the water, destabilised. Water, thought Milena. Vampires can’t cross running water.
Thrawn was standing beside her.
‘I’m going to get to know you terribly well, Milena. I’m going to be here all the time. I’ll see every petty little stunt you’re going to pull. When you talk to the little What Does who cleans your Tarty house, I’ll be there. If there is a little fly on the wall, it will be me, watching.’
Milena in silence knelt under the sink, and pulled out her flask. She suddenly felt exhausted, drained. I feel tired all the time now. Can’t let Thrawn see.
Milena the director stood up with her flask. She often filled it with tea to take to rehearsals. Now she filled it with water. If I can get her near people and throw water at her, at the image, the light will refract. People will see she is a hologram.
Milena walked out of the bathroom. She walked through the image of Thrawn, feeling the light tingling in her Rhodopsin skin. Better not fill anything else up with water, or I will give myself away. It’s July now. I go into space in October. She won’t be able to reach me in space. Sometime before then, they will have to make me Terminal. When they make me Terminal they’ll know everything. I’ll be linked with the Consensus. The Consensus will know, through me, what she has done. They’ll have to pull her in. So I’ve already won. All I have to do is hang on. Until space, until I’m Terminal.
Until then, I’ll have to be around people. I need to stay with people. Thrawn is the most impulsive, impatient person I’ve ever met. She won’t be able to wait. Unless of course she realises that I am relying on that.
Work. Lots of rehearsals, lots of recording, lots of people all the time. She’ll hate that too. She’ll see me cubing the holograms, and she won’t be able to stand it, she’ll see it’s happening without her and she’ll have to act.
Thrawn, thought Milena with quiet certainty, I am going to have to destroy you. I wonder if that’s what I was supposed to do all along? ‘Say goodbye to your old life,’ said Thrawn. ‘Say hello to your new.’
There was the Dead Space between all the residences, but Milena could still hear the slithering sound of panels being pulled back. Someone else was going out. Milena spun around and immediately went out of her own front door. She did not slide it shut behind her.
Below, in the public atrium of the house, Ms Will was walking towards the open gate. The sight of Ms Will had never been so welcome.
‘Going out?’ Milena asked pleasantly.
Milena had not made an effort with Ms Will. She was too much like what Milena had imagined a Party wife would be, a kind of overstuffed, throwaway cushion. She was well dressed, hair coiffed, well fed, looked after, and her face carried an expression of settled resignation. Her husband did not really need her. The circles under her eyes were black rings in the full July flush of a Rhodopsin face.
‘Yes. I have to do the shopping myself,’ said Ms Will.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Milena asked, feeling false. I ignore people, she thought, until I need them. It’s like the chicken. Thrawn was right.
‘If you like, I’m not doing anything special,’ said Ms Will. ‘I never do anything special. It’s different for you artists.’ Ms Will waited, staring into space as Milena’s feet applauded their way down the steps. Milena half ran to her across the woven floor.
‘The weather has been lovely,’ said Milena.
‘Oh, it’s far too hot,’ said Ms Will. Behind Ms Will, unseen by her, the walls started to ooze mucus, and there was a whisper of sound, a voice in the air, a reminder. Thrawn was still with her. As if prodded, Milena walked on.
The main gate had been left open, so the air could flow through the house. The sunlight they stepped into was blistering, blinding. The ground was white, as bleached as bone. The What Does woman was hanging out sheets and underwear. They burned white in the sun. Already there was a smell of rotting reed. Already the grass on the bank was brown and brittle. A slope of mud led down towards the narrowing channel.
Everything was already going dry.
The What Does, Ms Marks, called out to them.
‘Wonderful weather for sheets. They dry as soon as you look at them!’ Suddenly Ms Marks’ smile sprouted fangs and an eel’s head glared out from between her teeth. Look! thought Milena and tried to pull Ms Will around. Then the image was gone. Ms Will blinked up at her, only momentarily distracted from her complete absorption in herself.
Milena kept thinking. The eel’s head and that buffalo carcass were very good. Thrawn is using references. She’s in a market somewhere, somewhere with beef carcasses and fish. Milena walked towards the quay. It no longer reached the water. The bank of the Ark ended, high over the edge of the water. From the kilns, smoke still drifted, and the formless choir of Remembrance still sung in the distance.
Ms Will took Milena’s arm, as if she were a What Does companion. ‘It’s not good for you, all this sun,’ said Ms Will. ‘I got a terrible sunburn yesterday, just sitting out on the balcony. And it puts you straight off your food. You’re never hungry. I told our girl Emily to come up with something especially appetising. But she can’t change, won’t change. No, it’s tamales again.’ Ms Will had not the least idea that she was extraordinarily privileged.
‘It’s so difficult to remember to eat,’ Milena agreed.
‘Well Emily blames the shortages. I can’t fault her there. The perfect excuse. Isn’t it ridiculous? Food shortages now that we have electricity.’
‘There are a lot of people to feed,’ said Milena, keeping her voice mild. ‘And all this sun is lovely, but it’s very bad for farming. A lot of the land crops have just burned up.’
‘It’s the costermongers, too, of course,’ said Ms Will. ‘I think they engineer these shortages, just to put up the price. Making everyone else pay. I don’t want to eat tamales for the rest of my life. So I’m just going to have to do the shopping myself.’
Oh God, oh God, oh God, she’s so boring, thought Milena. Fear made her more irritable.
‘I’d like some bananas,’ said Ms Will. ‘Just for a change. I’d like something different.’ The flesh on her face hung dead on her skull. The smoke of the dead from the Estate lay overhead. They waited for a punt, in the full, glaring horrible light.
I have an enemy, thought Milena. And I am alone.
Eventually a boat came past, punted by a stringy, burnished old man in his mid-thirties. Ms Will needed to be helped down off the Ark and into the boat. She let her full weight rest on the withered arms of the dying man.
As she sat down, Ms Will complained that it was so far to the market. Party Members should have their own market, she felt.
‘I find it awfully difficult to get anyone to pay any attention when I’m talking,’ said Ms Will. ‘Do you find that? People can be so extraordinarily cruel for no reason.’
‘Yes,’ said Milena. She was thinking about the light all around them. Light was her enemy, too. The holograms were exchanges of light. Light in one place was exchanged for light in another, through the fifth dimension, where thought and light could interact. But it was a reciprocal exchange. Only as much could be donated as was received. So I could live in the dark, too, thought Milena. She looked down into the water. It was opaque, like moving gelatin, but in its depths, she could see the heads and hands of children swimming. They had long reeds in their mouths that broke the surface and let them breathe. They hunted for fish or for snails.
And suddenly, just under the water, she saw Thrawn. Thrawn was a corpse and fish was nibbling the flesh of her face. Milena looked up and away.
‘My skin feels so peculiar,’ said Ms Will.
It seethed with worms, just under the surface, as if they would eat their way out any moment. You can’t imagine flowers, Thrawn, thought Milena, but you can imagine that.
There was a niggling in Milena’s nose. She sneezed. The tickle grew worse. She sneezed again. She began to sneeze over and over. Her head was tossed helplessly from side to side. Her nose and eyes streamed, trying to eliminate the tickle. The tickle suddenly took shape. It became a voice, resonating in the bones of Milena’s skull.
‘Achoo!’ it said, in mocking imitation. ‘Hello, Milena.’ The voice sounded like her own. ‘Think of me as a virus. You have caught a conscience from somewhere. You have committed a grave injustice, of which you are deeply
