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Culture Documents
It’s raining: a February morning. Rain breaks the cold. It comes and
the leaden remains of January soften: something more humane,
something expectant whispers in the shadows of buildings. Memory
says soon the river will thaw. West of Putney and Richmond, it will flow
again. Gone will be the ice crystals coating branches of trees in front of
the apartment. Gone will be the sharp claw in the air at 3 in the
morning. Winter has its beauty and is confinement: the body tightens
and the mind drifts high. Every winter I long for summer and then long
again for winter. I catch things in balance. The endless pull between
light and dark, between death and rebirth.
I wrap a raincoat tight and put on an old pair of field boots. A felt
hat covers my ears and will keep the rain from my head. Mila has
returned to bed. We have been up since 4 this morning.
What she told me still runs through my mind. Something comes out
of a hidden stream. It has always been there but kept from view. It is
not supernatural. Hidden things are hidden by human action. Human
minds cover truth with subterfuge and distraction. You always knew
things were not as they appeared. Then that intuition comes close. A
face you know. Someone you love. Cold truth cuts you to the bone. You
can no longer avoid the dark knot at the center of your life.
I come off Palace Gardens. I turn left toward the UmR station. On
the corner of Pembridge is a nutri-Bar. The thought of black coffee
makes me quicken my step. Keep on softly raining, I think, as the
drizzle drifts down the Notting Hill t-Bahn. I cross through the subway.
I think of Mila lying at home. I see her pale, almost translucent skin,
her thin arms, one over the quilt, her small, soft breasts; and that face
that can be so yielding and so defiant. What is it I love most in her?
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When she is angry she closes like a small fist and I must hold her. She
teases me; laughs at me sometimes. Her love is sudden and intense. I
am so mixed up in her it is as though invisible fibres, fibres of a rare
and other-dimensional quality exist between us. We have become so
intertwined I let her say things I would let no-one else say. I listen to
her. I listen to her as I listen to no-one else.
“I can’t stop,” Mila said in the early hours of the morning. Sitting up
abruptly in the dark, she said it with such resignation, such immediate
despair I was frightened. As though she were turning and facing a
world in shadow: a dark road without end.
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She shook a little. In the silvery-light I could see her eyes were
wide.
“Would you like some water?”
“No thanks.”
“I need some.”
I got out from under the duvet and walked to the tiny kitchen. I
voiced on the light. The water ran from the communal cooler gently. I
took a drink.
“Are you sure you want nothing?” I called back to the bedroom.
“Is there some juice?”
I opened the fridge and found a container of coconut juice. I poured
some then looked out the window. I returned quietly to the bedroom.
“Coconut.”
She nodded.
“It’s quiet.”
“Quiet?”
“On the street. Cold drives everyone inside.”
“What did you see?”
“The moon, frost, a light burning in a window, silhouettes.”
I sat on the edge of the futon and handed her the juice.
“Can you try and explain?” I said.
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Mila sat quietly for some time before talking. She took a couple of
sips of her juice and stared at the duvet.
“You won’t think I’m un-adjusted,” she eventually asked.
“Un-adjusted. Why should I think you’re un-adjusted?”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“True.”
She asked me turn on the lamp, ‘not too bright, just modulate it
down to low.” Then she stared straight at me. Her eyes seemed almost
to probe me.
“It’s difficult to put in words.”
“Try.”
She let out a long breath. She put her hand up to the side of her
face and wound some stray strands of hair around her fingers.
“Lately I imagine I see things.”
“Things? What type of things?”
She sat forward, drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around
them.
“Lately I’m walking on the street and have a sudden image. A
frightening image. I imagine I see a body standing in front of me. I
know it is someone who is dead.”
I was not sure what to say.
“Describe it.”
“I can’t describe it well. It is as though something has eaten this
body from within. The flesh is all soft and decayed. The eyes have
disappeared. It only barely looks human. Still it is human.”
“Where do you imagine these bodies?”
“Anywhere. On the street. In the UmR. Here in the apartment.”
“Why do you think this is happening?”
She hesitated. She was still playing with her strands of hair.
“I feel they are trying to tell me something.”
“Such as?”
She took a deep breath: then exhaled making her mouth a small
pink-lipped circle.
“Just now I had a dream. I was somewhere, a sort of expanse, arid
and desolate. I could see these low hills in the distance. The skies were
blue. Too blue. I looked and I saw thousands, maybe hundreds of
thousands of these bodies. They were just standing on this plain. A
huddled group, a mass of these bodies. A great line of them. When I
looked at them I knew they were dead. But I also know they were
trapped in some way.”
“Trapped?”
“Yes. They were in some sort of state. They were waiting on
something or someone. It was as though they were between two
worlds.”
I frowned though I didn’t want to.
“Are they in pain?”
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Mila tightened her arms around her knees. She leaned into herself.
Then she gazed at me.
“They are resigned.”
“Resigned?”
“Yes. They are resigned and confused. They feel betrayed. They did
nothing to be there. They know they should not be there.”
I stood up. I thought of taking her in my arms. Her body language
said I should not. She remained sitting upright, shivering: in some way
enclosed.
“What can I say?”
“You don’t need to say anything.”
“No?”
“It’s what they are trying to tell me I can’t quite understand.”
“What would they want to tell you? Do you have any idea?”
“Maybe.”
“You do?”
“I should tell you about my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Jiri.”
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his accuracy and finish in action - an exploding Azerbaijani head here,
a Liberian body count there. Credit Rates are negotiable and legal
liability lies with the charge.
I drink some more coffee. The girl some places down stands
suddenly, locking her ankles in the foot rail and raising her hands in
the air. Presumably her chosen fatty is winning. (I am allowed say
‘fatty’ since the ES Department for Nutricomics recently declared - Fat
is Futile, Fat is Forbidden – shame them to death).
I wait on my egg-pancake and noodles.
I catch a familiar face swim over the bar. ‘Today is the First-
Minister’s birthday,’ the N-teller purrs. ‘EBC 23 is taking the
opportunity to show Ms Ohara home-side. She has generously offered
to give us a glimpse of her life outside the world of politics and
parliament.’
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My egg-pancake comes. The waitress changes her attitude. “Don’t
you like women?” she asks.
“Can I have my noodles?” I answer.
She sets the plate down.
“Here you go. Enjoy”
She leans forward a little. The tops of her breasts are visible over
her franchise-Vest. She has pale skin, lightly veined, a long neck and
sharp featured face.
“Well?”
“I like women.”
“But you don’t like me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“You could?”
“I could.”
She puts a hand on her hip, then straightens.
“Let me guess, you have someone.”
I nod my head.
“Do your noodles taste good?”
“I’m sure they will.”
I watch her saunter sadly back to her station.
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We sat in the kitchen: one each side of the small table. The strip
lamp over the fridge cast shadows on our faces. Mila suggested we
light a candle to soften things. I looked for one, moving packaging,
plastics and polymers that we were obliged to recycle; we had not and
so were technically in breach of city eco-directive 216 – a mandatory
fine. I reminded Mila that last time I had visited the market candles had
been unavailable. She inclined her head.
“The store off the t-Bahn, beyond the UmR, you know, it sells
candles.”
“We don’t hold that much credit. It is now ‘appointment’ only.”
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“Some years ago I was in Prague. I went to see my brother. My
brother, Jiri, is military you know. He was on leave. He had been out in
Central Asia. At the time he was with a specialized unit of the EUR-
RRF.”
She gives a little smile.
“The Yurf,” they call it on the inside.
“Yurf?”
“As in ‘you’re fucked’.”
“Ok.”
“He had just been in Minsk to see our carers. He had asked if I
would see him between there and Madrid. I was living in Madrid at the
time. We agreed on Prague. Prague is where our maternal
grandparents were born. It seemed appropriate. None of us were close
as a family so I was surprised. When he asked if we could meet I
wondered if there was something he wanted to say.
“We met in an old café on the Narodni. It was old on the outside,
brown stone and nineteenth in style. Inside it was completely 21st,
hollowed out: brisk, a little cold with business types sitting at tables
with glassy stares. At the time coffee was unavailable so we drank
beer. Normally I didn’t drink beer. But it was beer or tea, and seeing as
the tea was expensive, I took beer.
“Straight away it was obvious something was up with Jiri. He was
anxious. He had become older. I guess that was to be expected. His
face had become broader, heavier. It seemed fixed in a way I had
never seen before.
“At first we made small talk. He told me it had been snowing in
Minsk. He reminded me of the trees that could be seen from our
fifteenth floor apartment. How they looked when bare and snow heavy.
It made me sad. I remembered us playing below them as children. I
understood this was already lifetimes ago.
“After a while he relaxed a little. Maybe it was the beer. He asked
me how I was with secrets. Secret’s, I wanted to know, why secrets?
Because I want to tell you one, he answered. What kind of secret? He
hesitated. I thought maybe it was something personal. Perhaps he was
in some financial trouble. He had got himself in some sexual tangle.
It’s so secretive I will be in breach of the ES Intelligence and
Information Disclosure Act, Section 47, he answered. I was stunned.
The what? He said it again. How serious is this? It’s serious. Why me?
Why do you need to tell me? He shook his head sadly. I don’t know. I
tried talking to our carers. Then I thought they will not understand.
Understand what? Mila, I need to tell someone.”
“We talked then for a while about routine things. He asked what I
was doing – how it was living in Madrid. I told him it was warm: I liked
the people. All the while I was turning his request over in my mind. I
was unsure yet felt I should at least listen. Eventually I decided I would
hear what he had to say. I knew I was crossing a line. I was perhaps
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jumping into something serious. I told Jiri this. He was concerned about
the effect of me carrying around this information. I assured him I would
manage. If you need only to tell someone, then I am ready to hear.
“We drank our beers. He suggested it would be better if we went
somewhere private. It’s a mild spring day,” he said, “there is a tram
halt just a short walk along the Smetanova. We can go to my hotel”.
On the trees overhanging the pavement, there were buds, not yet
opened. A damp silvery mist rose from the Vltava’s surface.
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and busi-Towers buzz and hum with activity. We are awed at Corporate
Complexes, become dizzy with the golden light that caps them. We
float into space and looked down on arrays of Finance and Data Sats.
Children take their first steps. Young adults sign their first credit
contract. Mothers gave birth and fathers present sons with their first
football. We see two men holding hands as they choose curtains for
their faux-eighteenth apartment. A trans-Gene preens himself as she
prepares to deliver weather-data for a holo-V link. A doctor and medic-
team, their faces full of concern and gravity, rush an African child to
nano-surgery. In the Arabian Peninsula a young woman in protective
overalls holds a Geiger device and cares for children suffering from
radiation sickness. A sub-Saharan declares he is proud of his colour,
that he chooses his race, that he has won learning-Aid to go up to
Oxbridge to study the works of early twenty-first dance and song
culture. A . .
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vehicle that reflected my personal beliefs. I have always felt we should
think with our hearts, look into our inner being for the answers to
global problems. We are born to bring light to the world. Here in
Europe we are blessed with wealth and wonder. We want for little. Yet
in my heart, in my private mediation I am moved to share with others. I
am moved to help those who are not as fortunate as we. We should
endeavour to bring some joy to the darkest corners of the world.
Perhaps, you, co-creator in this venture of ours, ask how I, a politician,
a woman often portrayed in the media as tough and uncompromising
can believe such things.’
The cam moves in on her face. A brief flux of pixelation masks the
transition to soft-view.
‘Let me say, this is not a Party-Sharing. I do not wish to dwell on
difficult issues. I speak to you as a woman. As a carer and a wife.
Come, shall we go and meet my family?’
She stands. The cam moves back to show her walking, reaching to
the lens as though offering us her hand. Then Tim comes bouncing up.
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Ms Ohara has now moved to her garden. It is large: well beyond the
dreams of any city-dweller. She steps from an elevated patio that looks
out over thick woodland. Around her shoulders she has tastefully
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placed a Kashmir shawl. The evergreens behind her give a faintly fake
glow. The autumn feel to the colours jars a little with the fact it is early
February. She bends down to tend to some delicate looking flowers.
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Mila got up and went to the bedroom. I followed her. She knelt at
the far wall. I saw her peel back a fix-t painting she had bought, a copy
of a Van Gogh and then move a small panel in the plasterboard. Her
hand disappeared into the dark space. After a minute or two it
emerged with a crumpled plastic folder.
“Here,” she said.
I was shocked.
“They are the pages?”
“They’re copies. I copied them in my own handwriting. The originals
I destroyed.”
“Why?”
“An instinct.”
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“My brother saw this with his own eyes. Please read it.”
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required urgency. They are, of course, used all the time and on
domestic populations too).
I looked up and saw the skies above our heads were chalky. I
assumed this was not the first run over the city: as far as I could tell
winds were north to northwest. A colleague next to me made a gesture
of resting his head on his hand and sleeping. I knew what he meant.
At approximately 7.20 we reached our rendezvous point. Five
armed men, in white bio-Hazard suits were standing at the roadside.
They had no military or official markings of any kind to indicate who
they were. They stood by three refuse-trucks.
Our commanding officers dismounted first. There was some talking,
some consulting of time-pieces and they returned to the convoy. We
were to accompany the five men to a warehouse and then to be split
into 3 sub-units. Each sub-unit would take a different part of the city.
Re-grouping was to take place at an old oil depot on the main highway
south at 08.30
We drove to the warehouse, through the same deserted streets. By
now we all understood why there was so little human activity. Still I
was puzzled. Aerosol tranquillisation was no precedent for code-red
bio-Hazard procedures.
At approximately 07.35 we reached the warehouse. It was an old
rusting affair on a disused piece of ground, pot-holed and weed
covered. We dismounted. The five white-suited guys disappeared into
the warehouse and then repapered with more men. These men were
wearing gas masks and orange overalls. I understood them to be
Kazaks, Uzbeks or maybe Iranians. I could see they had been e-tagged.
I thought they were probably terror suspects from one of the detention
camps of Northern Iraq. We were ordered to secure a perimeter about
the warehouse. The men in the orange overalls then returned to the
warehouse and soon there was the sound of lifting equipment in use.
Forklifts appeared loaded up with dead bodies. They began to load the
bodies onto the refuse trucks. In wave after wave the trucks were filled
with these diseased, decaying bodies: bodies that appeared to have
been eaten from within by some vengeful bug.
“We were all nervous. As I had been detailed to hold the line I could
see the look of anxiety in some of my colleagues faces. Conflict-
hardened soldiers did not want to look.
“When we had finished we left and drove through the city on full
alert - in battle-ready position. We were ordered that anyone
challenging us was to be taken out with prejudice. The bodies were
thrown one by one into the empty streets. When all the bodies had
been disposed of we re-grouped at the oil depot. The men in the
orange overalls were then crudely strung together with chicken wire.
One of the five, still fully suited for bio-Hazard produced a hand-
weapon. He walked down the line of tagged men and one by one shot
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them in the back of the head at point-blank range. Their bodies, the
refuse truck and the oil-depot were then fired.
We drove at high-speed to the military airport east of Khyrdalan.
Full viral containment procedures and 48-hour isolation were put in
place. Containment included intense ultrasound scans. I assumed we
had been dealing with some sort of sub-micron technology.
When we returned to base in Baku, we were required to personally
sign the Disclosure Act and ordered by very senior personnel not to
make known or discuss anything of what we had seen. Three days later
the entire unit was broken up and all personnel were posted to various
other locations. I was sent to Tehran. Others went to Basra or
Peshawar.
On being released from containment I witnessed two of the white
suited men being escorted to a private jet. The jet was parked on a
side runway of Khyrdalan airport. They were dressed as civilians. The
jet was not a military craft but civil. The logo on the tail fin was that of
Exon-EP.
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The Sumgayit Incident was all over Global-Net for weeks: allegedly
an attack by some Caucasus terror group – the CAAG I think. There
were near to 112,000 people dead, the remaining citizens forcibly
evacuated to isolation camps in Georgia. ‘The worst bio-terror attack of
all time,’ n-Tellers almost gleefully informed us. Politicians queued up
to condemn and console. Three days after the story broke four men, all
of central-Asian origin, were arrested boarding a flight bound for Kuala
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Lumpur from Ashgabat, Turkmenia. They were found to be carrying
samples of a bio-engineered virus, since named rOn1.”
Pale light from the strip lamp ghosted our faces. A cold shadow
swept the kitchen.
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Rain is still falling. I pull my raincoat tight and the felt-hat down over
my ears. My field-boots are muddy, from the snow, from rain. I feel a
little light-headed. The rain seeps under the rim of my hat and down
my neck. An old shopping complex, deserted, with an overhanging
scaffold gives some shelter. I stand and watch the traffic slip by on the
t-Bahn. Pulling out a pack of cheap cigarettes, I light one. Loose pieces
of tobacco catch on my lips. The blue smoke lingers in the wet air.
What is it I love in Mila? Is it the way she suddenly pulls the veil
back on things? How she dives into the unknown and comes up with
something.
“You know,” Mila said at 8 this morning. We were sitting in our small
living room, the duvet over our knees. The first light of dawn was
coming through the window.
“When I said goodbye to my brother the following afternoon in
Prague it was something final. The pages he gave me are like an
invisible connection between us. It makes me think of the old twentieth
tactic, during the Soviet period, of samizdat. He just turned in front of
the Rudolfinum and waved and walked away. I accept that.”
She put her hands in mine. She wound her fingers tightly about my
fingers. Her head rested against my shoulder.
“Maybe that’s what the images are trying to tell me. The truth is
buried beneath layers and layers of lies. It is so far down that even the
dead are trapped in its absence.”
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