Future Dreams survived; before long the cover-ups began, the fix was in. But we stopped getting new incidents of the IS Plague in Africa. And African leaders, stung by the untrue report in the Western press that their own scientists had patented an antidote to the plague, commissioned their university’s brightest scientist to patent an antidote to something. This resulted, five years later, in a virus that combated the symptoms of and essentially eradicated, MS, ME and diabetes. The resulting profits made Africa rich, and eventually led to a state of affairs where the African Community of Nations was a net lender of money to Western countries, rather than continuing to be a net borrower.
The political consequences of these deftly planted psych bombs never cease to astound me. I have performed, in my time, marvels that have changed the history of the world. But no one knows of course. That’s my curse; to never get the credit.
On this occasion, however, I did not care.
It was four years before a team of scientists managed to graft on my new skin. I went for improved breast implants at the same time, and insisted on tiny laughter lines around my eyes, to alleviate the otherwise overwhelming effect of pure, perfect, glowing young skin.
On the day my graft took, I booked myself into the Bridal Suite of a 5-star hotel, got drunk on champagne, then lay naked on the bed and stared and stared at myself in the ceiling mirror. I didn’t masturbate, I didn’t sleep. I just spent the night admiring myself. A day before, I had been a flayed monster with bulging eyes who was unable to touch anyone, and whose appearance sent children screaming away.
Now I was beautiful. But psychologically maimed. To this day, there are times when I cannot bear to touch anyone. Even now, I become hysterical if I see someone peel the skin off a chicken; and blisters and skin abrasions cause me to have panic attacks.
But I internalise all these phobias and fears. I try not to dwell. I self-therapise.
Secretly, though, I consider myself to be a monster, a horror – a flayed beast. Nothing will ever persuade me otherwise. But I have an inner cesspool, where all my bad thoughts and fears go. There dwells the monster. There my hate broods and simmers.
And there too my guilt lives. My guilt at having a child born in an artificial womb without a father to a mother who was nearly two centuries old. My guilt about never being there, never suckling my baby, hardly ever changing his shitty nappies, rarely rocking him to sleep. Peter was “born” when I was just a few years into my job at African Aid. He was only four when I was flayed and hospitalised; and in the years that followed I was consumed with hate and rarely even spoke to my growing child.
When Peter was eight, I got my skin back, and became a promiscuous alcoholic with a phobia about touching people. I had screaming rages a lot in those days, and if truth be told, I have memories of smacking Peter and telling him cruel stories to hurt and wound him. Those were my mad years. I can make excuses, but I cannot turn back the clock.
Peter became a wild teenager. I forgave him everything. He was my baby, my boy. I lavished him with love. I paid his bills. I bailed him out of trouble. I forgave him, again and again, for all his misdeeds. I did my best by him.
So, am I really to blame? Is it really all my fault that my oh so beautiful baby turned into the most evil human being who has ever lived?
Book 5
Lena
I watch myself die. Alby swirls over me. It’s almost affectionate in its delicacy. Then he swirls away.
I am on fire. I scream and scream in agony. I fall to the floor and roll around, trying to extinguish myself. My bones char, my skin melts. I die in utterest agony.
The agony ends. I reset the CD-Rom. I press Play. Once again, I watch myself die. Alby swirls over me. It’s almost affectionate in its delicacy. Then he swirls away.
I am on fire. I scream and scream in agony. I fall to the floor and roll around, trying to extinguish myself. My bones char, my skin melts. I die in utterest agony.
The agony ends.
I reset the CD-Rom. I press Play. Once again, I watch myself die. Alby swirls over me. It’s almost affectionate in its delicacy. Then he swirls away.
I am on fire. I scream and scream in agony.
I press Pause.
I freezeframe on my death’s-mask face.
I must stop doing this. It’s extremely bad for me.
I press Play. Once again, I watch myself die…
Lena
“We’re calling it a Resurrection Party,” Flanagan says, with that annoying twinkle in his eye.
“I’m not dead,” I say sternly. “I was never dead. You killed a simulacrum.”
“ He didn’t know that. Your precious son.”
He’s still smiling. I keep my composure. I try not to let him see I am on the verge of hysteria.
“Who knows what he knows?” I retort, sulkily.
“He thought it was you. He watched you die. He let you die.”
“He did the right thing.”
“His own mother?”
“You can’t negotiate with terrorists. You cannot give in to kidnappers. These are fundamental principles of law enforcement.”
“But you’re his mother. You gave him life.”
“Not much of a mother.”
“But all the same, he let you die.”
“What do you want from me? Forgiveness?”
“I want your support.”
“I’m still your prisoner. I’ll do whatever I’m told.”
“But what if I released you? Let you go?”
“Captain Flanagan, don’t taunt me. Your stupid plan has failed. You’re now a fugitive. The Cheo will hunt you down and kill you slowly. Savour tonight, because it may be your last.”
“Nothing has changed. This was the plan. The plan has worked.”
“This was the plan? What? That you didn’t get your ransom payment?”
“We don’t need a ransom payment. We steal what we need, pickings are rich, we have no need of the Cheo’s ransom money.”
“But you said you wanted prisoners released…”
“And so I did. But they’ll have been executed by now. We asked for the release of all the prisoners due to be executed this month: 410,000 or so of them. They are all dead by now. That’s a month. Every month, half a million people die.”
“You’re ranting again.”
“How can you let this happen? How can you sleep at nights?”
“I am hardly to blame.”
He pauses, reining in his anger. Then he says, “You’re free to leave. Your ship is prepared.”
“I’m free?”
“Yes.”
I’m astounded.
“On what conditions?”
“No conditions.”
“Is the ship boobytrapped?”
