light is swallowed up after ten feet. I have no idea where it leads. There’s only one way to find out.
I walk normally for the first few steps or so. But as the darkness becomes deeper I increase my pace. I make out shapes in the gloom: mattresses dumped over back walls, abandoned shopping carts. I bang my knee off a pile of bricks, but keep on running. There’s a small light at the end of the alley, getting slowly brighter, leading me on like a will-o’-the-wisp. I put on a burst of speed, worried that if I don’t move fast enough it will disappear.
My breath is heavy and hard by the time I make it out of the alley, more from the fear constricting my chest than the short run. I look around to see where the alley has led me.
It’s a graveyard.
Mossy slabs of once-white marble rise up out of brambles and weeds, like they’re trying to reach for the sun. I step over the small, brick wall that marks sacred ground from the unconsecrated. I can’t avoid stepping on the gravestones, but I try anyway, saying silent apologies to the people lying beneath. Angels with broken wings gaze down on me as I pass.
Up ahead there’s a clear patch of ground where someone has fought back the bushes and weeds.
I step over a fallen log and pull a strand of ivy out of my way. Whereas all the other stones look like they’ve been here for years, decades maybe, this headstone looks new. It’s small, only about a foot square; black marble with flecks of red I can only just make out in the lights scattered between the graves. I kneel down to read the stone.
John Fisher
Beloved father
Sleep on now, and take your rest
I reach out and touch the stone. It’s cold, the marble drawing the heat away from my fingertips. The skeleton of a dried rose lies on the ground next to it. I wonder if Ethan left it here. How often does he come and visit his father’s grave? Does his mother come too? His sister? Brother? Does he come alone?
I stand up and brush off the scraps of dead leaves and twigs that have embedded into the skin of my knees.
‘Where are you, Ethan?’ I say.
10
IT TAKES ME LONGER to get back to the compound than usual, as if the ghosts of the graveyard were weighing me down.
I press my palm against the reader but the gate refuses to open. This happens. The systems go down and everything goes back to manual. I wave at Phil, the security guard in the booth, and he gets up to let me in. From what Zizi told me, he used to work in research for the company but something went wrong. And now he spends his days opening and closing doors for other WhiteInc employees. I understand why he’s so miffed.
The house is blissfully empty when I get in. Zizi must be at work still trying to crack the election campaign. The fridge is empty apart from a packet of bean sprouts that are already liquefying in their bag, a lump of cheese and a single, dried-out kiwi fruit. I feel sorry for it. I grab the cheese and take a bite. It tastes like plastic. I close the door and punch the reorder button on the fridge’s display screen. I should have done it earlier in the week. Now, Zizi’s usual order of fruits, vegetables and fish will be delivered to the door tomorrow. I press the + sign on the screen and add a pack of sausages and a couple of meaty pizzas to the order. I don’t eat much meat myself, but it will annoy Zizi. And right now, that’s enough for me.
I take a can of Coke Clear from the cupboard and slump into the living room. The can makes a small fizz when I open it and take a swig. It’s warm. I place the can on the teak coffee table, which Zizi rescued from somewhere in Indonesia, making a point not to use a coaster. I know I’m being petty and passive aggressive and all the things Zizi has been accusing me of over the last week. But I don’t care. I collapse onto the sofa and put my feet up on the table next to the can.
I wave the TV into life.
Two stern-faced women sit opposite each other in
I walk normally for the first few steps or so. But as the darkness becomes deeper I increase my pace. I make out shapes in the gloom: mattresses dumped over back walls, abandoned shopping carts. I bang my knee off a pile of bricks, but keep on running. There’s a small light at the end of the alley, getting slowly brighter, leading me on like a will-o’-the-wisp. I put on a burst of speed, worried that if I don’t move fast enough it will disappear.
My breath is heavy and hard by the time I make it out of the alley, more from the fear constricting my chest than the short run. I look around to see where the alley has led me.
It’s a graveyard.
Mossy slabs of once-white marble rise up out of brambles and weeds, like they’re trying to reach for the sun. I step over the small, brick wall that marks sacred ground from the unconsecrated. I can’t avoid stepping on the gravestones, but I try anyway, saying silent apologies to the people lying beneath. Angels with broken wings gaze down on me as I pass.
Up ahead there’s a clear patch of ground where someone has fought back the bushes and weeds.
I step over a fallen log and pull a strand of ivy out of my way. Whereas all the other stones look like they’ve been here for years, decades maybe, this headstone looks new. It’s small, only about a foot square; black marble with flecks of red I can only just make out in the lights scattered between the graves. I kneel down to read the stone.
John Fisher
Beloved father
Sleep on now, and take your rest
I reach out and touch the stone. It’s cold, the marble drawing the heat away from my fingertips. The skeleton of a dried rose lies on the ground next to it. I wonder if Ethan left it here. How often does he come and visit his father’s grave? Does his mother come too? His sister? Brother? Does he come alone?
I stand up and brush off the scraps of dead leaves and twigs that have embedded into the skin of my knees.
‘Where are you, Ethan?’ I say.
10
IT TAKES ME LONGER to get back to the compound than usual, as if the ghosts of the graveyard were weighing me down.
I press my palm against the reader but the gate refuses to open. This happens. The systems go down and everything goes back to manual. I wave at Phil, the security guard in the booth, and he gets up to let me in. From what Zizi told me, he used to work in research for the company but something went wrong. And now he spends his days opening and closing doors for other WhiteInc employees. I understand why he’s so miffed.
The house is blissfully empty when I get in. Zizi must be at work still trying to crack the election campaign. The fridge is empty apart from a packet of bean sprouts that are already liquefying in their bag, a lump of cheese and a single, dried-out kiwi fruit. I feel sorry for it. I grab the cheese and take a bite. It tastes like plastic. I close the door and punch the reorder button on the fridge’s display screen. I should have done it earlier in the week. Now, Zizi’s usual order of fruits, vegetables and fish will be delivered to the door tomorrow. I press the + sign on the screen and add a pack of sausages and a couple of meaty pizzas to the order. I don’t eat much meat myself, but it will annoy Zizi. And right now, that’s enough for me.
I take a can of Coke Clear from the cupboard and slump into the living room. The can makes a small fizz when I open it and take a swig. It’s warm. I place the can on the teak coffee table, which Zizi rescued from somewhere in Indonesia, making a point not to use a coaster. I know I’m being petty and passive aggressive and all the things Zizi has been accusing me of over the last week. But I don’t care. I collapse onto the sofa and put my feet up on the table next to the can.
I wave the TV into life.
Two stern-faced women sit opposite each other in
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