The Island Read online

  Brownwater Place was a block of two room apartments. The outside was an ugly red brown, and one of the glass panels in the entranceway had been boarded over. The rooms were cold in winter and overpoweringly hot in summer, but it was cheap and somewhere to live. He wrinkled his nose as he entered the building; the smell of mould and piss he would never get used to. He coughed, a brittle sound complimented by the creaking of the tired wood as he ascended the staircase to the fourth floor, passing a neighbour whose name he didn’t know. He recognised the look though. The haunted expression of sheer hopelessness was more than familiar.

  TWO

  Chase went inside, closed and locked the door, then took off his jacket. Somehow, being home and a failure was worse than if he had been mugged or attacked. He tried to take a deep breath, almost lost it by starting to cough, and then swallowed it back down. He walked into the cosy sitting room, ignoring the damp and black mould which lingered in the corners. His wife, Ashley, smiled at him, the worry in her eyes cutting him deep.

  “How did it go?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “No luck today. I’ll try again tomorrow. We’ll get something soon.”

  “I know we will,” she replied, this time unable to hold his gaze. She was a year younger than him, and a qualified nurse. Even for her there was no work. Nobody could afford healthcare, and so there was no need for an excess of staff. She had red hair and pale skin dotted with freckles. Her eyes were a deep jade.

  He sat in the armchair and started to unfasten his boots. “How have things been here?”

  “Fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. We’ve been worried about you. I wish you hadn’t sold your phone.”

  “We needed the money. Besides, I can look after myself out there, don’t worry. How’s she been today?”

  Ashley blinked and looked at her hands. She had chewed her nails down to the skin. “No change. She’s awake if you want to go see her.”

  Chase wanted to tell his wife she would be okay, that they would be okay, but he wasn’t certain it was true, and didn’t want to lie to her. Instead he stared at her for a few seconds, hating himself for not being able to ease the burden he could see she was carrying. He wanted his old wife back, the one who wasn’t pale and frowning, and who had lost so much weight because she was just too stressed to eat. It hurt him to even think about it. He got up and went to one of the two bedrooms, opening the door and stepping inside.

  THREE

  Elsie Riley was just five when the lung cancer was first diagnosed. Now aged nine, it had started to win the battle with its fragile host. Chase hated to see her the way she was. Tired and sick, frightened but trying to be strong for her parents. She had her mother’s eyes and hair and his jawline and determination. Her room had been turned into a sanctuary. Soft toys lined the walls, and the portable electric heater – the only one in the house – was in here to keep the room warm against the bitter winter chill. Chase walked to the bed and sat at the foot of it, listening to the wet rasp of his daughter as she battled just to breathe.

  “Did you get a job, Daddy?” she asked, turning to face him.

  He hadn’t realised she was awake, her words startling him. “No, not this time, sweetheart.”

  “You will. I know you will.”

  He held her hand, the skin so soft, so fragile that it looked as if it could break. “We’ll get there, Elsie. I promise.”

  His daughter nodded, too weak to respond. He wanted to change the subject and turn her away from such a bleak line of questioning. “Hey, where’s little Timmy from down the hall these days? I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  A cloud of uncertainty passed over his daughters face. It was brief, but there all the same. “Timmy got sick.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know,” Chase replied, realising just how preoccupied with finding a job and setting them on the road to recovery he had been. “We’ll have to get him a card. You can write it, how does that sound?”

  That shadow passed over her face again, the uncertainty and this time, an unmistakeable flicker of fear. “He’s not here anymore, Daddy. He went to heaven.”

  It was a rare thing for Chase to be speechless, yet his daughter had managed to achieve that feat in a single sentence.

  “What happened to him?” he asked, feeling as if he were having some kind of out of body experience. “He was here a few weeks ago. He seemed fine.” Apart from that cough. The same one your daughter had before the cancer. The same one you have now.

  Of course he couldn’t say any of that. His job was to protect his daughter. Instead, he held her hand. It was all he could do.

  “He has the same thing I have, Daddy.” She sat up then, and now there was no hiding the fear. He could feel it seeping out of her. “I don’t want to go to heaven, Daddy. I don’t want to die. Timmy said there was medicine, some that would make him better. Why can’t we have that, Daddy? Why can’t I get better?”

  Although she didn’t intend it, her words were like a one two punch and made him feel like an utter failure. There was no cure for the late stage lung cancer which ravaged her organs and ate her from the inside, but there were treatments which could ease her pain, even if they were only available to those who could afford the vaccine. The idea of it made him angry. His daughter, along with countless others like her, was dying a slow, pollution-related death because they couldn’t afford the price put on it by the rich and powerful pharmaceutical companies. The idea that his daughter could die because they didn’t have the financial means to stop it was almost too much to comprehend. Just affording to live week to week was hard enough, especially with both of them out of work and Ashley having to stay at home full time to look after Elsie. The welfare money only went so far, and with growing rumours that it was to be either cut or abolished in the next year depending on who you happened to ask, the future was bleak. He thought about the lowlifes, the criminals and the drug dealers, the armed robbers and the pimps. He was damn sure they were making money. Not cancer vaccine money, but money none the less. Although it was tempting, he wasn’t prepared to make that step just yet.

  “Will there be angels?”

  He blinked and looked at her, his thoughts evaporating as he came back to the present.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Angels. When I die, will there be angels?” She was frowning, and he was struck by how much she looked like Ashley.

  That figurative knife drive itself a little deeper, but somehow he managed to smile. “You’re not going to die, Elsie. I promise.”

  She shook her head. “You shouldn’t do that. Make promises you can’t keep. It’s wrong.”

  “I promise, you won’t die. I’ll do whatever we need to get you that medicine to need.” He kissed her hand, somehow fighting back the tears.

  “It’s alright, Daddy. I know you’re trying your best. You don’t have to lie to me.” There was no blame, no aggression in her voice. Just empathy and understanding that the young and innocent possess.

  “I promise you, I’ll get you the cure you need. Now you get some rest, okay?”

  She nodded and lay back down. He tucked her in, still fighting the urge to cry. “You get some sleep, okay?”

  “Okay,” she repeated. He kissed her on the head and went out of the room. Before he closed the door, he took a last look at her, so small and fragile as she lay on her side, wheezing her breaths in great, wet, laboured motions. He closed the door and returned to his wife, who was watching for him. Without saying a word, he knelt in front of her, put his head in her lap and let the tears come as she stroked his hair.

  A SEED IS SOWN

  NEW YORK CITY

  NOVEMBER 23rd 2043

  Days blend into night and back to day, and the only thing that changes is the intensity of the cough and the deterioration of his daughter. Chase is in that place where the things he promised himself he would never do were looking like increasingly appealing options. He had never committed a crime in his life, but the idea of taking
from someone who was better off than he was in order to provide at least a shred of hope to his family was starting to feel normal. It was this mind-set that had brought him to a part of the city which he never would have ordinarily visited. Formerly known as Little Italy, the lower Manhattan district had been hit particularly badly by the broken economy, and many of its Italian residents had long since moved on to pastures new. In their place, pop-up markets had been erected along with low-quality stores run by immigrants and those who had a product, however seedy, to sell. Here, the poor didn’t try to hide what they were. Here they thrived in a seedy den of poverty and destitution. Chase walked through the stinking filthy streets, past the scammers and beggars, pushers and panhandlers. He passed garish neon stores selling everything from plastic bongs to exotic street food. His stomach quivered at the sight of rat meat kebabs being consumed by those who couldn’t afford anything better. It wasn’t rat or cockroach kebab he was looking for, nor low-grade amateur pornography which seemed to frequent every other stall and cater to every despicable taste imaginable. What Chase was looking for was tucked away in a dark recess, a stall set up to be as discreet as possible, the wares on it not the true product it was known to sell. Chase stood and looked at the array of lighters on the table top, many decorated with painted marijuana leaves or badly drawn skulls. He eyed the man behind the table with his filthy fingernails, scruffy birds nest hair and shallow features. His skin seemed to be stretched across his skull, the bluish veins visible beneath the skin.

  “Anythin’ you need?” the man said, grinning and showing an ocean of rotten, stumpy teeth. Although he was as white as white could be, he spoke with a bad fake Jamaican accent for reasons Chase couldn’t comprehend.

  “I’m not sure. What else do you sell?” Chase asked, careful with his words until he knew what was going on.

  “What is it you need, brotha?” the wannabe Rasta said.

  Chase looked around. Unsurprisingly, nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention. “Not a lighter. I was looking for something with a bit more…impact.”

  The man made no reaction, which Chase saw as a sign he was at least in the right place. “Can you help me or not?”

  The man behind the stall shrugged. “That depen’ on exactly what you need.”

  “I think you know.”

  The scruffy man sucked his rotten teeth and placed his hands flat on the table. “You have to ask for it, brotha. Entrapment and all that. What are you lookin’ for?”

  Chase wanted to say it, but the three letter word that was so simple in principle just wouldn’t project from brain to lips. He tried, swallowed, cleared his throat and tried again. “Gun. I need a gun.”

  A beat of silence, and Chase wondered if he had made a mistake. However, the man didn’t tell him he was crazy or turn him away. He simply stared at him with those dead eyes and smiled at him with his stinking mouth.

  “Can you help me or not?”

  “Depends. Even if I knew someone who could get what you asked for, it would cost. The question is, do you have the money, mon?”

  “How much would it be?” Chase asked, unable to believe he was indulging in such a conversation.

  “Depends how big a shooter you need. Bigger costs more, obviously.”

  “How much for a small one?”

  “Pistol will set you back three hundred.”

  Chase shook his head. “I can’t afford that. You need to come lower.”

  “You don’t make the prices here. Three hundred or you can get out of here, bumbaclat.”

  “I only have fifty, and I had to struggle to get that.”

  The stall holder shook his filthy head. “I can’t do it. Best I can go to is two seventy five. Take it or leave it.”

  Chase felt it, the desperation and hopelessness. This was his one remaining plan, his one chance to maybe make something happen for his family. Now, it too was on the verge of being snatched away. “Look, please, you have to help me.”

  “I don’t need to do nothin’, mon. Come back when you have some green and we can talk.”

  “This is all I have. Don’t you get it? It’s all I can get. My daughter is sick, she–”

  “Not my problem. Everyone is sick. If it’s not the cancer, it’s the cold. What makes you special? We’re all scratchin’ and fightin’ to survive in this worl’, mon. All of us.”

  Chase knew he was right. Nobody owed him or his family anything. A simple look around the city told him that they were just a small part of a machine that kept running no matter what happened to the Riley family. He supposed it might even have been for the best. He slinked away, losing himself in the crush of people in the markets. There was certain comfort to it. The noise, the smells, the desperation. He always thought he was above all that, but it was becoming obvious that he belonged with the scum in the streets. Even though he hadn’t been able to go through with buying the gun, the intent had been there and that made him no better than those he had looked down his nose at for such a long time. He wasn’t sure how long he walked. It started to drizzle, which then became sleet. Still, it didn’t deter the crowds who continued to hustle and scheme and beg and borrow. He spotted a silver-panelled van, a mobile coffee shop with a line of stools under a tatty red awning at the side of the vehicle. Inside, the van owner flipped burgers and fried onions on the hot plate. Chase took a seat on one of the vacant stools and ordered a coffee from the money he had scraped together to buy the gun. It was watered down and served in a polystyrene cup, but it warmed his hands and tasted vaguely flavoursome. He sat, lost in his thoughts as he cradled his cup. Two stools down, two other customers were engaged in conversation. Without any intent or realising he was going to do it, Chase tuned into the conversation. One of the men, heavyset and in his forties with a little puff of hair on top of his otherwise shiny head, was called Earl. He had dark skin and a yellowish tint to his eyes. He nodded and listened as his friend, Roger, as slim as Earl was obese and a good fifteen years Earl’s senior, tried to drive home his point.

  “You know it makes sense, Earl. Things were never this bad before that son-of-a-bitch Lomar privatised everything. They all but own this damn city.”

  “Come on, Roger, you know better than to listen to those stories. I see that Lomar guy in the news. He does a lot of good stuff.”

  Earls shook his head. “That’s all bullshit. Public relations, man. He stands there and smiles and lets them take his picture but he doesn’t care about you or me.”

  “They don’t owe us anything. It’s easy to blame them for the mess.”

  “That’s because it’s their fault. They bought everything. The police. The hospitals. Who the hell do you think funded Mayor Wilson’s campaign?”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing,” Earl said, shaking his head.

  “Bullshit it don’t. You seen the pictures of them, smiling and playing golf in some fancy-ass club when people like you and me are scratchin’ a living on the street.”

  “We’re the forgotten generation,” Earl muttered as he sipped his coffee. Chase thought it was a quite eloquent statement as he took a sip of his own drink.

  “Forgotten nothing, man,” Roger hissed. “Ignored maybe, but that son of a bitch knows we’re here. Make no mistake about it.”

  “What about TV? They gave us free TV. All of us.”

  Chase glanced at the countless televisions high up on the walls of buildings. It was true, they were everywhere. He sipped his coffee, curious to see how the conversation would unfold.

  Roger, it seemed, was not about to be swayed. “Don’t get me started on that. Lomar Network. Oh yeah, you can have free TV as long as you watch what they choose to show. No thank you. That’s why I read books. I don’t want to see what those assholes tell me I should be thinking.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “And you’re deluded.”

  The two men fell silent, and for a while, the only sound was the sizzle of cheap meat and onions. Roger drank from his cup, and then hal
f turned towards his friend. “What about the island. Are you telling me that’s normal?”

  “Don’t get me started on that, Roger. That’s old school. A lot of these younger kids they don’t know nothing’ about it.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best. Talk about dangling the carrot. What a cruel idea that was. And who thought it up? Lomar. That assholes name is on everything.”

  Earl sighed and took a battered pack of cigarettes from his jacket. He lit one and offered the pack to Roger, who took one. The two men lit up, then, after exhaling, Earl went on. “You know, the Lomar name used to mean something. Jackson Lomar was a good man. He had plans to help this city.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ about Jackson Lomar, I’m talkin’ about Damien. Since he took over the business it’s all gone to shit. Buy this, build there. Expand here, bulldoze there. That son of a bitch has killed this city.”

  “You don’t know that. That’s just guessin’.” Roger didn’t seem so convinced in his own words, and Chase could see why. Earl was making a great point.

  “I ain’t guessin’ shit. My cousin used to work for Jackson back in the day. He had plans to fix this city up before he passed. As soon as that son of his took over, that idea went out of the window and he built his damn manmade island. What a waste of money it was too.”

  “Stupid idea anyway. Nobody who took part in that stupid game of his ever stood a chance of winning a damn thing.”

  “You think Lomar didn’t know that? Why else would he give the prize of anything the winner wanted if they ever expected anyone to be able to win? Use your brain, goddamit.”

  Chase was now beyond curious. He knew about the Island of course, everyone knew of it. This was the first he had heard of any kind of game, never mind an outlandish prize. Before he could stop himself, he had turned to face Earl and Roger. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing… What is this game you were talking about?”

  Roger and Earl shared a look, one which Chase read as easily as they did with each other. It said: Be careful.