Composite Creatures Read online

  At one point my phone buzzed, and as I pulled it out Art gave me a sideways glance. “Put it away,” he sang. “Today’s about us, remember?” I swiped away the message from Rosa and dropped the phone in the glovebox. He was right – I needed to focus.

  As we approached the triple gates, a larger crowd than I’d seen in a long time were crowded around one of the security booths. Through the raised hands and placards, I could just about see the tweed-wearing guard behind the glass shouting into a black mobile phone. Some people were banging their fists on his window, while others rattled the fences or sat holding their heads in their hands in the squeaky green grass. A crude white banner was tied to the fence with string;

  All life matters. STOP PLAYING GOD.

  One of the woman finishing off the knots raised her head and my stomach clenched. Her platinum hair was shaved down one side. Was it her? Was she here? But then she turned and her face was wrinkled like a crumpled paper bag. I released one long breath and sank low into the passenger seat.

  “Let’s just take the side exit, eh?” Art spun the steering wheel and we headed down a narrow country lane towards a set of painted white gates. The security guard there looked just as rattled as the one in the front booth, and scanned our ID bracelets and paperwork with shaking hands. Then, a quick and husky “Thank you”, before opening the gate just long enough for the car to inch through the narrow gap before locking behind us with a clang. We pulled into the car park and sat in silence for a few minutes. Art’s face was grey and I could see all the whites of his eyes, so I reached across and held his hand. He looked down at it, his lips tight. “It gets a bit fucking much sometimes. Why won’t they just give it up?”

  We were early, so had a little walk around the wooded grounds before hunting down the phase five clinic. It felt like when we visited a stately home in our early days, but of course this time all of it was new – the trellises, the trees, the turf. Some saplings looked like they were struggling for light between the larger, artificial oaks. On those, bark sparkled like it was newly coated, but it still peeled in the midday sun. On one wooded avenue I picked up a pinecone to inspect the tight fit of its armour. I used a thumbnail to separate the layers, and discovered that the inner was constructed from corrugated cardboard. I pressed it back together and returned to the grave before carrying on walking.

  Further back into the deeper woodland were the clinics reserved for the full members, in phases four and five. These were larger buildings built of stone, perhaps converted old barns and farmhouses. They couldn’t all have been though; there were too many, and they stretched on far between the trees. As we made our way up the gravel walk, we made a game of guessing which buildings were genuinely old and which were fake, judging them on the colour of the stone, the slates on the roof, the window frames. But as neither of us could work out the truth, our game ended without any sense of closure. There was no winner, and instead we just tailed off, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

  It wasn’t long before we reached the area with the painted prefabs, beneath the willow trees. The speakers in the branches were blasting out the kind of deafening coos and hoots that I would never have associated with a feathered thing. Art pointed to the central hut. “You know, once I heard the strangest thing coming from there, in a pause in that crappy soundtrack. It was like a shout, but it wasn’t words. Just vowels, really.”

  I didn’t want to think about it, I wanted to be away, but Art started to drag me over the grass towards the door, crisscrossed with metal bars.

  “Stop,” I said. “This bit’s not for us. It’s private property.”

  Art twisted his mouth. “Private? We’re members now. Nothing’s hidden anymore.”

  I yanked my wrist from his grip, but not before I was close enough to read the small bronze sign low down beside the door handle: “The Core: Detention and Reconditioning”. Art stared at the plaque for a few seconds before turning back to me, his eyebrows raised, his cheeks ashen. I grabbed his hand and pulled him back towards the path with one thought in my mind. We shouldn’t be here.

  We continued along the gravel in silence. What was there to say? We didn’t know what was inside the pre-fab for sure, but I couldn’t stop wishing that I’d used a magnifying glass to read all that small print in those first information packs.

  After a few more minutes we realised how utterly lost we were. We’d given ourselves plenty of time to find the right building, but by now we’d definitely wandered too far. We stood for some time, looking back and forth along the trail for a clue or a signpost, both of us growing increasingly panicked that we were going to be late. It seemed to me that the place was designed to lead you off into the wild without any signage to guide you home, and I knew deep in my heart that it was deliberate. Nothing at Easton Grove was ever accidental.

  “I can’t say much for their user experience,” Art muttered into my ear.

  To our left was a three-storey stone building painted in duck-egg blue, with a sign by the door which read “Surgical Recovery”, and just opposite, a huge white behemoth marked up as “Organ Auxiliary Centre”. Beside that was the entrance to a long, low-lying complex which stretched back into the trees, so I couldn’t see how big it really was. There were no windows, and the stone-effect exterior made it look more like a bunker than a medical centre. Art wasn’t looking and drove me onwards, but before we passed by completely I craned my head to read the sign: “Ovum Organi Genesis Centre”. Strange glassy clangs and thumps could be heard from within, and I quickly turned away and focussed on the squeaking green grass, the daisies that never died.

  If how deep you went into the grounds reflected how long you’d been a member, we’d definitely come too far.

  We headed off back in the direction of the entrance, but all we met were closed doors, and white signs plugged into the grass: “Ovum Organi Recovery Unit 1.2”, then “Ovum Organi Rehabilitation 1.1”, then “Stem Cell Regeneration Centre”. Where was everyone? At least from the flow of buildings, we could tell that we were finally heading in the right direction. I became aware of how tightly I’d clasped Art’s hand and I loosened my grip to match his own.

  When we eventually found the right outpatient reception, we signed in at the desk and were shortly invited into one of the consultation rooms in “Area F”. It was the first time we’d been to this part of Easton Grove and I have to say, it was pretty underwhelming. I’d expected it to be an upgrade from the previous clinics, after all – we’d upgraded too. You pull out all the stops for family visiting, surely?

  Area F lacked the light from the other clinics’ open-plan architecture; the bright windows, the bouquets in glass bowls, the bright and grinning staff members. Area F had the feeling of being underground, with dull grey walls and navy-blue plastic seating oddly spaced with huge gaps between chairs. There were flowers on the tables but they weren’t the glorious summertime bundles we were used to. Those had been replaced with crooked spider plants, their spindly leaves drooping in the fluorescent light. The overall effect was of tiredness and still air, no dynamism at all.

  We were called into the consultation room by a young man I hadn’t seen before. Underneath the long white coat he was excessively lean, and held out his elbows at odd angles as if he’d only just realised he had joints there and wasn’t sure what to do with them. His mouth quivered a little as he called our names, and his neck flushed at the sound of his own voice. As I passed him in the doorway he gave me a wide, toothy smile.

  Sitting in the room already was a face I’d expected to see, Fia, the consultant from my early days of assessments who’d given me the smile and the handkerchief. She’d signed on to continue as our joint mentor, and oddly she looked younger than I’d remembered, or maybe I just felt older. She definitely had fewer greys, and the self-conscious curve of her shoulders that I’d related to before had flexed back elegantly, her spine as straight as a catwalk model’s.

  Fia would be our main contact to coordinate between our lifestyle
mentor, physicality mentor, psychological assessor and ovum organi advisor. She’d seen both Art and I through phases three and four, and I was relieved that we wouldn’t have to tread any old ground.

  She offered us tea from a pot newly brewed, and when Art asked for a black coffee instead, the young man (who had stood by the door the whole time) dashed out of the room to make it. While we waited, Fia acted as if we weren’t there and started typing, even pulling up the leg of her tights where it had gone wrinkly at the ankle. The silence was almost physical, and I had to fight the urge to break it out of sheer awkwardness. I took a sip of the tea, and the sweet milky tonic made it better.

  The moment the young man returned with Art’s coffee, Fia perked up and addressed us both, still typing with one hand.

  “I hope it’s OK for Nathan to sit in with us. He’s on a placement and is keen to see how joint-members transition through the phases. Is it alright for him to listen and take notes? It’s all confidential.”

  We agreed that it was fine. “Nathan will also have some access to your early induction notes as part of his project,” Fia continued. “He might use some of it as a case study but he’ll anonymise it completely. He’s been given the highest level of clearance access to our records, but we still have to get permission from you if he uses anything… personal. I trust that’s also fine? If so, we’ll proceed.”

  We nodded, but the idea of some unknown man trawling through my backstory gave me a queasy feeling. He didn’t know me, he wouldn’t understand the decisions I’ve had to make every day. Inevitably he’d make judgements based on black and white, but what right did he have to decide whether my shade of grey leaned into the light or the darkness?

  Fia stopped typing and swivelled on her chair to face us. “So, this is just a routine check-in as we see it. We want to know how you both are getting on. So, how’ve you been since moving in together? All’s well in the bird’s nest?”

  Fia clapped her hands together and leaned forwards as if eager to be let into a secret.

  “All better than you might have guessed.” Art reached for me and thrust my left hand towards Fia. There was nothing I could do. As soon as she saw the gleaming opal she looked up at Art with the oddest expression. The only way I could understand it was that she was looking at him conspiratorially, as if he’d done something slightly cheeky but would get away with it. “You didn’t wait long, we thought that might take years.” She laughed, peering in at the ring for a closer inspection. “Why didn’t you tell us first?”

  Art squeezed my shoulder. “Why wait? You have to seize the day, right?”

  Fia nodded sagely, her eyes closed. “You do. My, we’ve taught you well. Norah, you must be thrilled.”

  I smiled, a trickle of laughter making it out before I was interrupted by Art. “We’re keeping it between us for now. No parties or shindigs or gloating. We’re sitting on it like a warm egg.”

  Fia looked thoughtful and released my hand. I pulled my sleeves down over my knuckles.

  “Very wise. You often see couples get so wrapped up in the celebrations that they don’t think about what they’re actually doing. And when it’s all over, they’re left with a reality they’re not prepared for. It’s sad really, but there you go.”

  I reached across and grasped Art’s hand, it seemed the right thing to do. He grinned at me with what felt like honest love. Fia sat back in her seat.

  “You’re both making it too easy, I feel like my work is almost done.”

  In the corner, Nathan scribbled notes into his book. Fia tucked an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re both about to go on a journey together that will make you grow in so many ways. And we’re glad to be a part of it. Your next visit – we’ll bring champagne, not coffee.” She took a grandiose slurp from her mug. “In fact, this deserves something better. How about more tea? Nathan, do you mind?”

  Nathan nodded and left the room. Fia folded her hands across her belly. “And how are your vocations going?”

  Art went first. “Not too badly. I was just part of a sell-out festival, and I have another book coming out at the start of next year. I’m now fully into the big one.”

  “Are you pushing yourself too hard?”

  “No, I’m careful not to.”

  “Good. I’m sure Norah’s doing all she can to support you too,” Fia glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “After all, it might be your big success that funds the pair of you in the future. Like a good old-fashioned married couple.”

  “I hope so,” said Art, squeezing my hand.

  “And you, Norah? How’s your work going? Stokers, isn’t it?”

  I said the words, I smiled the smiles, all the while knowing that Fia’s ear was trained for lack of substance.

  “How long have you been in that position now?”

  I pretended to count. “Ten years or so, ish.”

  “Don’t you ever want to move up the ladder? Be influential to the company as a whole?”

  “It’s not the sort of place with a lot of progression.”

  Fia tipped her head and pouted irritatingly at me. “But isn’t that frustrating?”

  I tipped my head too, and imitated her singsong tone. “Not at all, Fia. I make a difference in little ways. I like that.”

  “But you’ll be so experienced at that now. Don’t you want to be held up for loyalty?”

  I imagined myself hoisted on the shoulders of giants, all for the glory of processing insurance claims.

  “I think it’s unlikely.”

  Fia didn’t reply, and Art’s shuffling caught my eye. He was looking at his knees, flicking at a spot on his trousers. When the room went silent he looked up at me like I was a stranger. Was what I was saying so odd? Why was he so surprised that this was the language I was fluent in?

  There was still a need to present ourselves as a united front so I laughed, shrugging my shoulders as if throwing off a heavy cloak. “But I’m still finding myself, aren’t I? My niche.”

  The door opened and Nathan came in carrying a tray, and handed Art and I a blue mug of steaming tea each. It smelled even sweeter than my first cup, like hot cream and something else, cloves, maybe? I wrapped my hands around the mug and felt my body relax.

  Nathan sat back in the corner and smiled at Fia, who was still staring at me with her face puckered to a pout. She obviously wasn’t convinced by what I’d just said, but it was easier for me to concentrate on the heat of the mug, the steam on my face, than play games with her. Finally she turned back to her laptop to tap away on the keys. “We might need to give you extra support with this. You’re in your prime and we need you to do well. For the programme. You’re both such perfect advocates. Young. Approachable. Attractive. Accessible. But you must make an effort to show a holistic approach to wellbeing, here. Don’t mix with anyone that’ll drag you down, Norah. Have you seen your friends recently?”

  I told her I hadn’t, and she seemed pleased enough with that. Art looked at me quizically and I suddenly remembered my lie from when he was at the festival. That I’d seen Eleanor. I gave him a quick smile and then focussed all my attention back on to Fia. Don’t say anything Art, please.

  Fia pointed at my tea and I gladly took another sip. She continued to type through the remainder of our session, making notes after every answer we gave. She asked Nathan to measure our blood pressure and take a small sample of blood from each of us as a routine health check. Nathan was gentle, moving my arm into position as if I was a china doll that might shatter if he moved me the wrong way. I watched him closely as he pressed his thumb pads in the crook of my arm to identify the vein and then slipped in the needle. He smelt woody, like drying bark, but also a little herbal, like eucalyptus or rosemary.

  Fia booked us in for another joint appointment in six months’ time, and pressed upon us another folder of updated guidelines for self-care management. By the next appointment the snow would be back and we’d be ringing in another New Year’s Day. But rather than see that as some
thing to look forward to, I felt nothing. The appointment had knocked me hollow, and I dashed out of those sterile grey halls as quickly as I could without looking like I was running. Art skipped along beside me, seemingly unaware that the cold that had descended on me hadn’t yet thawed.

  If anything, I felt a bit stupid, and as always a hundred better retorts than the ones I’d actually given Fia and Nathan revealed themselves to have been in my head all the time – but inaccessible. Surprise. Traitorous brain. No chance to say them now.

  So what if I’d been in the same job for a while? Is it a crime to continue doing something after you’ve mastered it? No one would say that to a scientist, to a potter, or to Art. No one told him he should be writing film scripts or Christmas jingles. Surely it’s a bad thing to skip from position to position, never becoming an expert in anything?

  And why, despite the sad, soft looks, did their offer of help feel like a threat?

  I tossed the folders onto the back of the car and slid into the front passenger seat. Art leapt in the driver’s spot and turned on the ignition. “Obligations over. Let’s go, shall we?”

  It had been my idea to make the most of getting out of town. Since Art had been away, I felt like we hadn’t quite clicked back together as comfortably as we had before. Admittedly I’d built this afternoon up in my head as a chance to really get back on track with intimacy, but I’d sold it to him as simply an opportunity to enjoy the country. Less intimidating that way.

  Luckily it was a blazing hot August day, and I’d prepared a picnic, all wrapped up in a red fleecy bundle, and mapped out a route to an ornamental garden around an hour’s drive from Easton Grove.

  The air conditioning filter in Art’s car was on the blink so I wheeled down the passenger window to feel the wind on my face. Every so often I’d take a deep draught and the air would catch on my throat. Even though we were out in the middle of nowhere, and the only sign of life was the slow tread of distant scatterers on the horizon, you could still taste the tang of pollution – like licking the handle of a knife.