Adam 0532 Read online

  All along the border fence there are hatches where white-gloved hands can place boxes of food, clothes, tobacco; anything that has value in the Zone. When the required payment of credits is placed in the adjoining hatch the transaction is complete. The seller from the Heights can then retreat to their tree-lined boulevard never having fully interacted with one of us. Their final act is to stop at one of the coin cleansing stalls and all unpleasantness is washed away from their day with the filth of the Zone.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, as I pass intentionally close to a stout man waddling hurriedly away from his sale, his hands laden in credits. In response to my intrusion his bulging legs swerve sideways and he silently flicks the lapels of his suit jacket upwards like a shield. He eyes me with a mixture of disgust and fear, and a fresh trickle of sweat snakes its way down his glowing brow. I smile, ensuring my mouth remains pleasantly upturned and my hands visibly at my sides.

  ‘Lovely day,’ I add.

  He lollops a little faster, tottering yet further away from me on stubby ankles, his breath racing ahead of him. I keep pace effortlessly, unburdened by the years of honey-roasted peacocks, truffle stuffed lemurs and sugar candied saffron cakes his corpulent body has had to endure.

  ‘Good to be in the Heights on a day like this – soak up the sun, breathe in the clean air.’

  He stays silent but something in his demeanour changes. He stops and mops his forehead with a yellowing handkerchief and then snarls raptor-like in my direction: ‘I don’t know what you want you grubby little shit, but if you don’t stop hassling me I’ll have your pass revoked. I don’t care who you work for or why you’re here, now fuck off!’

  I stop, feet rooting firmly to the floor as I watch the man retreat in to the distance. The tailored leaves of his suit flap comically behind him like the flippers of an enormous pinstriped walrus lolloping towards the safety of the sea.

  Such little rebellions feed my grumbling heart like the bliss of sleep to an aching limb. It is a rare moment, savoured and sparingly taken. Perhaps if it hadn’t been for the checkpoint I wouldn’t have taken the risk, but today I need it.

  6

  The final gate is the one that really matters; a refusal now will mean a wasted morning and another day without wages. For a moment I worry that the sweating walrus of a man will have reported me. I envisage hours of questioning, during which as many punches as enquiries are thrown my way. But how would he report me; what would he say? He doesn’t know my name; my number; my employer or my address. To him I am just another grimy face, a vermin upon the crisp white streets of the Heights, indistinguishable and disposable.

  So I take my place in the queue unchallenged, lining up with all the other flotsam and jetsam to wash up upon the shore of the Heights.

  I’m eventually greeted by a heavyset man in a finely pressed uniform and neatly trimmed hat. A cloying waft of cologne creeps through the holes in the scratched plastic wall between us and claws at my throat. We go through the same tired routine, the answers springing from my lips without thought as I reel off the numbers and addresses that define me. But beneath this my mind roams, seizing upon the inevitable question of who he had to screw or kill to make it this far. Because despite his finely manicured nails and the tailored satin shirt that clings to his growing frame he still reeks of the Zone. You can see it in his eyes; the awe, the gratitude – he wasn’t born in to this life. To his own continued disbelief he made it through the gates and he’s not about to let the rest of us follow without a fight.

  He hangs a heavy chain round my neck with the words ‘Day Pass – Inner Heights’ in thick black type. For good measure he thumps a well-inked rubber stamp on to my right hand causing the skin to blush red with the impact. When he pulls the stamp away I see today’s date clearly marked in blue ink.

  ‘You know the rules, you go directly to your place of work, you don’t beg, you don’t engage in any unnecessary contact, and you make sure you’re back here by 8pm. Removing your pass; entering any premise except your place of employment; or failure to show by 8pm will result in detention and a punishment to be determined by a jury. You understand?’

  ‘Yes boss,’ I reply impatiently.

  Finally he is done with me. The barriers lift and I am admitted to the Inner Heights.

  I give my interrogator a cheerful wave and then flick him two fingers as soon as his back is turned.

  7

  Temples of excess line the streets on either side, credits flowing like sacrificial wine. The door to a patisserie shop opens and two children run out to the sound of a chiming bell. Their tiny hands are laden with towers of cakes, macarons, and wedges of chocolate gateaux, all packaged up in neat white boxes. The girl; the younger of the two drops a large box and it spills its load on to the street; red jam streaking the white marble floor as the cooled dessert explodes upon the sun-baked pavement. But she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even look back to see the greasy stain of melting cream blossoming on the side of the discarded cardboard. Its loss is nothing to her.

  I wonder what it would taste like and how much I could eat before the dense excess of cream and sugar proved too much for the bland walls of my empty stomach. But I don’t get the chance to find out. A well-dressed woman follows the children and laughs as her Pomeranian laps at the puddling cream, clumps of it staining its glossy brown fur.

  Beyond the patisserie lies a sweep of pristine boutiques. The crisp windows brim with brightly coloured leather bags, shiny shoes with white-gemmed buckles and a clutch of mannequins draped in fox red furs. I imagine Ella strolling from store to store; her pale fingers drifting over ball-gowns and handbags with equal disinterest.

  It is a safe and well-worn fantasy; me watching from behind iron rimmed glass windows as she picks up a blue dress that perfectly matches her eyes. She holds it to her breast; brown hair swimming over the sleeves as she inspects herself in the mirror. Perhaps the dress is to wear at a concert or play, or perhaps just for around the house. Or maybe she works in the shop; hands idly inspecting the goods as she waits for a customer to arrive.

  I am reminded once more how little I know of her and how distant she has become. I don’t know if she works, or where she goes when she leaves my watching eyes. Beyond the confines of the house we are nothing to one another. The moment either one of us pass through the rolling grilled gates we are lost to the other until such time as we both return. Except Ella is never truly absent, never completely gone. I carry the memory of her with me wherever I go. She is unbound, free to come and go as she pleases.

  It is some time before the sprawling stores give way to even larger houses. The homes of the Heights occupy the very centre of the city, commanding a view over all the rest. From here the outer ring of the Zone is just a distant smoggy cloud of black upon an otherwise pristine landscape.

  Closer to home emerald green lawns and sapphire blue pools flank enormous white detached properties that gleam in the sunshine. From behind the finely clipped hedges of the wealthy comes the buzz and hum of a legion of drones mowing, watering and weeding the expansive lawns. But from the wealthiest mansions there is only silence; occasionally interrupted by the rising bubble of laughter as an heir or heiress escapes the playful eye of an au pair or nanny. Here the drones and robots lay idle while an army of men and women clip and preen and rake and wash. This shift heralds my arrival as I walk in to the world of the employers; the benevolent keepers of men who extend the hand of work to the Zone.

  I’ve heard a hundred reasons why they employ us and turn their backs on the expensive gadgets that could do the same job. From generosity to tradition every possible explanation has been provided. But for all the drones and robots a homeowner can have, the greatest sign of wealth is showing you can buy a man; bring him to his knees day after day and still have him return for more.

  8

  The Fairwater’s house is enormous. From the road all you can see is a wide golden gate and the beginning of a sweeping gravel path that bends out of sight behin
d a towering laurel hedge. I ring the bell and wait patiently for the arrival of Griffin; the Fairwater’s live-in manservant. He is a short man with soft features. Twin green eyes lie beneath finely plucked eyebrows and his brown hair spikes upwards to the sky, streaked with the dyes that are so popular in the Heights. Today he sports a splash of purple, mixed with a subtler teal. His uniform – issued by the Fairwater’s to all their permanent staff – is customarily brief. An open necked shirt reveals a downy sweep of trimmed chest hair, the one anomaly in his otherwise androgynous look that enables him to flip flop so seamlessly between the bedrooms of the lady and master of the house.

  His gleaming white shoes softly press upon the gravel pathway. He walks tentatively, being careful not to disrupt the freshly raked stones. At the gate he observes me quizzically as he waits for me to explain myself.

  ‘The transporter was broken; I came as quickly as I could.’

  He pointedly looks at the watch on his wrist and then slowly steps forward, placing his chin upon the leather rest just below the retina scanner. The gates chirp and bleep in to life before swinging outwards, forcing me to step back in to the road to avoid their advances.

  ‘You’re two hours late.’

  ‘An hour and twenty minutes,’ I say, correcting him.

  ‘You’ll be docked two hours.’

  ‘Are you serious? Do you know how long it takes from the Outer Zone without a transporter?’

  ‘No. I don’t. And it’s of no concern to me either. Two hours…unless you’d like to finish up for the day now?’

  ‘No. Thank you. Two hours it is.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  He signs my work papers with an exaggerated flourish and then tosses them in my direction. Throughout, the fixed look of disdain upon his face never fades. I feel like reminding him that the only difference between the two of us is that they make me wear a sign around my neck. The moment he becomes too old, or puts his back out, or some expensive ornament takes a tumble to the floor they’ll kick him back to the Zone so fast he’ll get whiplash. It almost makes me feel sorry for him; this strange man that has been groomed and trained into domesticity but will one day be cast back in to the wild fully unprepared for what he’ll find beyond the barriers.

  We skirt around the house, being careful not to stray beyond the crisp neat lines of the path at any point. With every cautious footstep the soft crunch of stones triggers a visible wave of panic as each worker discreetly raises their head to check who approaches. Their relief when they see Griffin and I is palpable and they return to their task in the knowledge that they have escaped scrutiny a little longer.

  Griffin deposits me at the rear of the house as he pauses to inspect the work of one of the new girls who is frantically scrubbing the alabaster tiles surrounding the main swimming pool. His tirade of abuse fades in to the background as I continue on through the garden alone.

  One of the gardeners; Sam or Simon or something like that is already at work pruning a hedge that seems to run for miles. His shirt is dark with a thick channel of sweat running down his spine. I can almost smell his fear. He makes slow, cautious movements, trying to keep his body temperature low. The sickly-sweet smell of sweat belongs in the Zone. It’s the stench of hard work, the crush of too many bodies in too small a space, of writhing dancers pressed up against the wall of an underground club, hips and tongues twisting to the beat of the music. But there’s no place for that here, here it’s unsightly – here it can get you fired. When he sees me approach he risks a flap of his shirt as he tries to generate a breeze in the stifling heat.

  ‘Who’s in today?’ I yell as I pass by.

  He knows what I mean by ‘in’; he’s been well trained to think with deference. He doesn’t tell me about the cleaner, or the caretaker, or the cook, or the housekeeper, or the pool boy, or the tennis coach…because whether we’re here or not doesn’t matter.

  ‘Just the lady of the house and Miss Ella today – the Master and the little’un have gone up to the lakes to escape the heat.’

  I can’t help but smile at the news, not only that Frank Fairwater is absent today, but even more so that Ella is in. I slow my pace a little; savouring the hope that today she’ll finally come in to the garden.

  ‘You should ease up,’ I say to him.

  He mutters something in reply and waves me on through the garden, anxious not to be seen to be shirking. Not that I blame him – if he were to be taken on permanently a gig like this could set him up nicely. The grounds are big enough that by the time he’s finished once, everything will have grown up enough for him to start over.

  I turn around just before I reach the path and already he’s returned to work, head bowed slightly from the sun as he scrabbles to catch every falling twig before it dirties the immaculate white gravel yard.

  9

  It is towards the edge of the property, beyond the pool and barely in sight of the house that I reach my own labour: the path.

  The path was meant to be a small job – three, maybe four weeks at most. Anyone could see it was nothing more than a folly, a metre wide strip of brick that stretched from the far corner of the garden, past the pond and through the orchard before slowly creeping towards the back door of the house.

  I started on it in the late spring. When I was handed the design I thought it was a joke. It was a child’s drawing – a yellow and red scrawl of crayon on a sea of green – the work of Ella’s younger sister Faith. My customer wasn’t the master of the house, nor his wife; but a three year old with a blank sheet of paper and more money at her whim than I would ever see.

  If I could afford to be proud I would have turned it down. Instead I resolved to finish the job as swiftly as possible and move on. And that was how it began. I started at the far end and worked quickly, making good time. Each day I advanced closer and closer until the house finally came in to sight.

  But when I neared the swimming pool I saw her: Ella Fairwater standing at the window brushing her hair as she surveyed the family estate. At first I didn’t recognise her, but there was something familiar in her strangeness. Her body was tall and slender, and in her mid-twenties she hadn’t yet developed the paunch of the Heights that comes from years of rich foods and fine wines.

  In the days that followed I saw her again and again, moving through the house, invisible until she appeared in a different window - like a ghost drifting between worlds. And then the ghostly figure walked its way in to my dreams, gathering memories to it…and I remembered.

  From then on my work on the path slowed. I started watching for her, trying to anticipate her movements and where she might be at any given time. Her appearances became more frequent, her presence ever more lingering.

  It was only as I grew close enough to see her face that I realised she was watching me too.

  10

  I take up my usual position on my knees, cement trowel in hand and a pile of bricks by my side. Ella is in the bedroom window with a book, the pages surreptitiously unturned. I start working; smoothing the ground before placing a warm ochre brick in to the path and removing the excess cement. I can do this in my sleep; the simple rhythm is so familiar now that I don’t need to pay attention. Instead I can focus my attention on the window: on watching.

  Twenty minutes pass, maybe more, before I’m interrupted by the jolt of a water bottle thumping in to my side. I bolt upwards, leaping in to anger, but the gesture is one of camaraderie rather than dismissal.

  Boltz stands over me, his t-shirt streaked in gold paint and his face splashed with silver.

  ‘Griffin give you a hard time?’

  ‘Yeh’ I reply. ‘Docked me two hours.’

  Boltz hisses a string of abuse in Griffin’s direction; some words I recognise, most I don’t. It’s worse when he’s all riled up like this, and curses are the hardest to untangle. He spends most evenings on the gas getting off his tits on the cheap stuff they use for knocking out pigs in the abattoirs. So now he speaks like a junkie, made-up words slip
ping seamlessly in amongst the real ones, unable to determine which the rest of the world knows and which are only recognisable to his equally gassed up mates.

  ‘You ok Boltz?’

  ‘Just grikes me, jumped up little Colikoko. Who does he think he is?’

  ‘How’d you get in so early?’

  ‘Blikko, works on the transporters. Told him yesterday not to come in.’

  ‘Yesterday? I heard they shut it down due to a robbery last night. You saying otherwise?’

  ‘Told him yesterday – that’s all I know cuz, bunch of Yininikkers knew yesterday. They fuck you over cuz, I tell you: they fuck you over!’

  Boltz is growing animated, his voice escalating perilously.

  ‘Show me how it’s going then,’ I say, trying to steer the conversation away to less dangerous territory.

  He smiles and leads me out of view of the house to a large tree with a paint-stained ladder propped against the trunk. Overhead the leaves are slowly changing to silver as Boltz, methodically transforms each one using a tiny brush with bristles the length of eyelashes. A can of gold paint is propped amongst the branches and a shining apple glistens golden in the morning sunshine.

  ‘Looking good my friend! Looking good!’

  I clap Boltz amicably on his back and for a moment the two of us stand observing the beautiful pointlessness of it. Neither of us know why he’s painting the tree, or how Boltz came to be there. Presumably at some stage Boltz knew, but the answer is lost in a haze of gas and weed and the huffed up meth bags he steals from the rehab centre. Somehow it doesn’t matter, in some way the planets have aligned and as unlikely as it seems this chemmed up junkie from the Zone is a genius with the paintbrush. Every line is perfect and not a single blade of grass beneath the tree is splattered with paint.