AX50 Page 15

  We all looked at each other. I guess we all feared this would end in disaster. It was a hell of a long way, and his boat would surely be spotted by Xanasa’s satellite surveillance. We tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn’t be budged. One by one, we wished him well but declined to join him. We watched with admiration as he nibbled away at his band with wire cutters. We hugged him and watched as he threw his X-talk into the woods north of the camp and then doubled back towards the south coast. A few minutes later, a military drone swooped over us and disappeared in a southerly direction.

  As I lay in bed that night ruminating over the day’s events, I wondered how the clones had known where Owen had gone. They must get a signal when an X-talk is cut off. As it has a GPS tracker, they would know where it was discarded. The strange thing was that he had thrown it in the opposite direction to the one he’d taken. They must have some other way of locating us. The only time we have an operation is when they take a bone marrow sample. I didn’t think that was a sham, as I’d heard of someone using that sample as a marrow transplant when they developed leukaemia. Could they insert some sort of tracker at the same time?

  Owen turned up at a lecture two days later. He looked unharmed but blanked out all his old friends and left as soon as the presentation finished. We guessed that he’d either been brainwashed or threatened.

  I was determined to discover what had happened to my friend. That evening, I contacted him using my X-talk. He said he was busy. I thought that was unlikely and went round to his flat, taking a small collapsible ‘music box’ with me. I pressed the videocom outside his flat and was sure that he was watching me without responding. I knocked on his door. Nothing. I started hammering on his door and must have kept this up for at least five minutes. All my knuckles were bruised as I kept changing hands to relieve the pain. I was about to give up when a soft buzz indicated the door was unlocked. I hesitated. Clearly, I was intruding where I wasn’t welcome, but I felt it was imperative to discover what happened when the regime abducted someone. I pushed the door open and found his windows in ‘dark mode’. I entered the gloom and as my eyes slowly adjusted, I saw Owen flumped, almost absorbed within the soft cushions of his low-slung black velveteen armchair. He was motionless, looking at me with expressionless eyes as if to say he couldn’t care less whether I existed or not. I noted that he was wearing a new X-talk.

  It became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything. I put my box on a table by his chair and placed my wrist inside. He didn’t move at all and I had to pick up his left wrist and insert it into the other hole.

  “Look, mate, I know you don’t want me here, but you’re one of my best friends and I’m not going to give up on you that easily. What happened to you after they picked you up?”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re fucking talking about. I woke up yesterday feeling perfectly well, but when I switched the glass to transparent, I was met with summer sun and leaves in the park instead of the frosted skeletons of trees which were there when I went to bed. Somehow, I have lost about six months of my life. You say you’re my friend, and yet I don’t know you at all. I’ve seen you at lectures and you always looked friendly enough, but I can’t remember ever speaking to you. What is it you want from me? Have you any idea what has happened, and why the hell have you forced my hand into this ridiculous box?”

  I explained what had happened in the last six months. How we’d been having illegal meetings where we complained about the regime, and how he’d planned to sail away to Ibiza before he was captured.

  “Well, fuck me! That explains why everyone was giving me such funny looks at the lectures today. I’ve absolutely no recollection of any of that!”

  “They’ve obviously removed all your memories from the time we first met. They’ll be watching you closely and will almost certainly have clocked that I’ve come round to see you this evening. You mustn’t tell anyone about this, unless your X-talk is in a box like this. It’ll be best if you don’t meet up with the old gang for a bit as it would only make them suspicious. We’ll meet again once this has all blown over and they reckon you’re a reformed character. Good luck!”

  I left Owen’s flat, horrified at the power of the regime. How could we fight them if they were able to erase chunks of our lives and not be able to remember how or why this abhorrent punishment had occurred?

  Thankfully, my two years were nearly finished, and I returned to Bridetown excited at the prospect of moving to Africa, where I’d heard society was more laid-back.

  -----

  Nairobi was one of the ‘megacities’ of Africa. Millions of people lived there, mainly in modern glass blocks amongst the trees and lakes of the city’s parks. People were flocking to Africa because of its beauty, the weather and lifestyle. Nairobi had a fantastic climate and was surrounded by game parks. Mts Kenya and Kilimanjaro were nearby and the beautiful tropical coast was only thirty minutes away by hyperloop. Tourism was thriving and work was plentiful.

  My college was based at Nairobi Game Park just out of town. It attracted prospective game wardens from all over the continent. I became friends with Moses, who ran one of the restaurants. He was a mountainous man, distinguished by a huge gash across his left cheek which went right through his left eye. This eye was now milky, shrunken and mangled. Apparently this was caused by a lion attack. I suspect it was far more likely to have occurred during a drunken brawl. He was a jovial character who used to revel in telling rude stories.

  Occasionally, he would come up to my flat at sundown. One evening, we were watching a lightning storm. The sky far in the west over the rift valley would suddenly be flooded with bright sheet lightning; occasionally, forked lightning would flash to Earth. Amazingly, it was almost silent as it was so far away. Moses reminisced. “One of my mates, who had no shoes, had been sheltering under a tree in a thunderstorm. He was struck by lightning but it didn’t kill him instantly. The next day we found him, charred and burnt, out on the open grass. A few yards away under the tree, I found a rock with some crispy skin stuck to it.”

  “Moses, that’s horrible.”

  “Life was tough in those days, Ewan. I was a child during the Ebola outbreak. The stench of rotting bodies was unbearable. The vultures were so fat they couldn’t take off! That seems like another world now, when we all have jobs and the food is great, as long as you eat at my restaurant!” He chuckled. His sombre mood brought on by the lightning had vanished.

  Then he spotted my ‘music box’. “What on earth’s that contraption?”

  I indicated that we should put our wrists inside, and started the music. I told him about my suspicions of excessive surveillance.

  “They can watch and listen to me as much as they like. They may learn a few good tips if they watch me and my girlfriend!”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that the Commissioners seem immortal?”

  “Not at all, I would hate to sit through all those court cases thinking that I had to do this for hundreds of years. We may die young of heart attacks, strokes or diabetes, but we have a wonderful life. The brightest stars die young.”

  “Don’t you think it is sad that beautiful African villages made up of thatched, mud-walled rondavels now only exist as tourist attractions?”

  “Have you ever lived in one?”

  “No, but they look cute, and tourists must like them.”

  “The rondavels used to form a circle surrounding an area in the middle of the Boma, where cows were herded within thorny enclosures for the night. This caused swarms of flies that would crawl over our children’s eyes. Inside, rondavels were dark and traditionally there would be a fire with no chimney. Smoke filled the place, which did deter flies but made you cough, and your eyes would be unbearably sore by the morning. They were badly insulated and used to be crawling with ants and termites. I’ve never met an African who now lives in a modern, light, air-conditioned house – like the one you were probably brought up i
n – who wants to go back to those bad old days.”

  This was a completely different perspective on the ‘regime’. We never used my ‘music box’ again.

  At the end of my year in Nairobi, I moved to Liwonde Game Park in Southern Malawi. I spent six months being trained by the wardens and learning all about the local creatures and plant life.

  One of the wardens accompanied me when I was taking my first group of tourists around the park. Tourists stayed in a resort that had been built on stilts over Lake Malawi about a mile from Shiretown. I collected them in an electric hovercraft just as the first glimmers of light appeared over the trees. The hovercraft could glide silently over the Shire River and its tributaries. If we got word of exciting game on land, I could take it hovering overland as long as it was flat with little undergrowth. It also had wheels if I wanted precise manoeuvrability amongst trees and scrub.

  In my cabin, I had a screen which showed the position of animals that had GPS monitors fitted, and another with images from hidden cameras. That morning, a pride of lions were on the move. They padded stealthily, keeping low in the grass. Then a herd of sable passed a camera not far ahead of the pride. We were off! I moved to where I judged them to be heading and waited under a ‘sausage tree’ with its dangling magenta flowers. Soon after, a lone black male sable with magnificent curved horns wandered by. A snub-tailed bateleur eagle soared overhead and swooped to pounce on an unfortunate snake. Finally, the herd of female sable ambled into view, oblivious to the danger that was following close behind. Suddenly the herd scattered, leaving one youngster struggling to keep up. It was all over in a couple of minutes and my tourists had a morning to remember. This should get some good reviews, which would help me gain holiday credits.

  I loved my work and living in Shiretown, which was always pulsing with music. There were a lot of children laughing as they played their made-up games. Most of us worked in tourism, but there were a few talented artists who produced carvings and paintings for tourists and us locals.

  I’d hooked up with Ruth, who was ebony black. Her full lips were usually accentuated with garish purple or scarlet lipstick, contrasting with her luminous white teeth. Her body was Rubenesque. I couldn’t get enough of her voluptuous, soft flesh. We went on our first holiday to Madagascar where the forests and thorny scrubland had been restored. We enjoyed watching white sifakas prancing across the ochre sand and then, amazingly climbing the horrible thorny cacti with their babies clinging on for dear life.

  Three months later, we went to Quirimba, an island off Mozambique, to watch humpback whales breaching and diving. We also swam near dugongs calmly grazing seagrass in the shallows. In the evenings, we would go skinny-dipping in the azure waters before evening drinks under the palms, watching the lazy waves caressing the sand.

  Life was good and Ruth and I were perfect for each other. Neither of us had said anything, but I was certainly thinking about getting married.

  I’d always been good at sending photos home and had regular holovision chats with Mum and Rhiannon. They were desperate to meet Ruth in person. I chose to go in May as I’d always loved the blossom, spring flowers and carpets of bluebells in the oak woods. I’d forgotten how cold it could be. It rained; Ruth and I froze. The cold, though, was nothing compared to the frosty reception that Ruth was given. Grandad and Nana had always accepted the light brown colour of their grandchildren (all children in the UK were now of the same hue). They kept staring at Ruth, perhaps because she was so black, but I suspect it was more to do with her dimensions. Welsh people now looked half-starved to me as I’d become used to Africa, where most people were plump and many were positively obese. I’d certainly put on some weight myself with the unlimited carbohydrates that I’d been eating. Maybe they were wrongly blaming Ruth for this. We found Welsh food to be bland and bitter, as we’d become accustomed to the sugar, salt and spices that flavoured our food in Malawi.

  We went for a walk in the woods between rain showers. Ruth went with Rhiannon and Glyn (they were still an item). I hung back with Mum to gauge her reaction.

  “She’s pleasant enough, but wouldn’t you prefer a little Welsh girl?” I quickly changed the subject as it was obvious that this was how they were all feeling.

  The next day, I remembered to collect my wave-skimmer as we thanked everyone and left for the hyperloop station. I thought how sad it was that they were stuck in their insular ways, while my life had exploded with fun and excitement.

  Ruth looked sad and contemplative as I chose a film to watch in our pod before we went to sleep. “Your family don’t seem to have much of a sense of humour. Perhaps it’s caused by the miserable, damp, cold climate. I would hate to live there, freezing all the time. Anyway, I think I would starve to death with that dreadful food which contained nothing to fill you up.”

  I could understand where she was coming from, but she was leaving them now, and surely the ordeal should be over. Was she angry that I’d wasted one of her credits? Or was this PMT? Living with mood swings associated with this was a new experience for me when I moved to Africa, as menstruation was history in the UK. That was about the only thing in favour of the unnatural regime in Wales.

  Back in Shiretown, our relationship had lost its previous spark. I was too cowardly to end it. Perhaps I’d changed, but I think the love that she’d had for me died in Wales. Without that, she became less attractive and I paid her less attention. A downward spiral had ensued.

  One day, I came back from the game park to discover all her clothes had gone; there was a note on our bed.

  Thanks for the good times. I’ll never forget them. I’m sorry I was so critical of your family. You’ve become a different person since our trip to Wales. I’m flying to Nairobi this evening. Ruth

  I knew we’d grown apart, but when I’d finished reading her note, I slumped onto my bed feeling utterly desolate. She’d enjoyed entertaining and our house had been full of noise and laughter ever since we’d been together. Now it felt cold and empty as if the very soul of our home had drained into the lake. When she wasn’t organising a party, she would be planning our next holiday. I used to return each evening from work brimming with anticipation to discover what the next extravaganza would involve. Now I had to accept it would just be me and my boring droid for company; I knew the friends we’d made were really her friends and would quickly drift away.

  I used up all my saved shopping credits to acquire an electric speedboat, and for my next holiday, I took this and my wave-skimmer up to Nkhata Bay. It was a beautiful resort built over Lake Malawi. The luxury huts had verandas with glass bottoms where you could watch the colourful cichlid fish chase each other over the sandy shallows. All the gear needed for watersports was housed in huts on the shore. Restaurants nestled amongst huge boulders under the shade of trees, north of the soft sand beach. Set back from the beach were beautiful gardens scented with jasmine and frangipani. There was also a tall tower block with indoor air-conditioned tennis, squash, hover-ball courts and a gym. Above that were ten floors of tourist accommodation, and on the top floor, there was a restaurant and an infinity pool, which had views over the lake to the east and towards the mountains far to the west.

  As I sat enjoying cold beers with some fellow wave-skimmers, I noticed a high wire fence just the other side of the resort’s gardens. On the other side of the fence, I could see endless maize interspersed with hand-built dilapidated rondavels. I guessed that this must be the eastern edge of the Christian reserve that I’d seen from the camp in Luangwa many years ago. I saw a beautiful woman gazing at the gardens of our resort, lost in thought. I made some feeble excuse, descended in the lift and went to watch her from behind a clump of tall bamboo. She had a symmetrical round face with sad eyes that gazed in an unfocussed way across the gardens. Her nose was slight and her lips were thinner than was usual here. Her black hair was straight, and the most striking difference of all was that she was as slender as a marathon run
ner. As I watched, she walked inside the fence, oblivious to me spying on her. She moved with the suppleness and grace of a lithe ballet dancer. I followed, keeping my distance. I trod on a twig; she turned her head and fleetingly stared straight at me. Her eyes opened wide, her lips parted and then she fled. She was clearly terrified of me.

  I lay in bed that night, enchanted and wanting to fathom this beguiling lost soul. I longed for her to return. Each evening, I watched in vain. Then, on the final evening of my trip, I saw her head peering through the tall maize, checking that the garden was empty. I held my breath and waited. She plucked up courage and approached the fence. After a while, she started to sing with a beautiful pure high tone more like a chorister than a woman. I replied with a croaky Welsh lullaby. She turned to stare. She crouched, her legs taut and trembling, like a hare ready to flee. Slowly, her face relaxed. She rose and tentatively approached.

  “Hi, you’ve a beautiful voice. Do you speak English?”

  “I do, what do you want?”

  “Nothing, but I’m curious to know why you come here.”

  “Who are you?”

  A door slammed, and by the time I looked back, she was gone; swaying maize the only indication that she’d been there.

  Every weekend and holiday, I returned to Nkhata bay, and each evening I would look for her to no avail. I arrived one Saturday to find the resort empty. I was told that the staff and most of the guests had gone to the town of Nkhata for a demonstration about the Commissioners having eternal life, while common people died young. It was only two kilometres but it was hot and I was perspiring heavily as I joined the crowd just as the Commissioner started speaking. The crowd were heckling and shoving, not in the mood to be pacified. I noticed some men picking up stones. I feared a riot. If that occurred, there would be fearful retribution and a tightening of local laws. I didn’t want this paradise to be ruined. I forced my way through the crowd towards the speakers and was surprised when one of the clone policemen grabbed my arm to pull me onto the platform, where an enormous black guy dwarfed the white Commissioner. I said I would like to speak and was relieved when the Commissioner smiled encouragingly at me and waved the mosquito-sized drone microphone in my direction. I’d never used one before and suddenly my booming voice was echoing off the tower blocks.