The Woman who Went to Bed for a Year

64

The twins were working on Brianne’s newly acquired desktop computer. They were exploring the labyrinthine corridors of the Ministry of Defence, after a failed attempt to destroy their father’s credit rating. It was hot in Brianne’s room and they were sitting in their vests and pants. Flies buzzed over half-eaten sandwiches.

From the open window they could hear students calling to each other, enjoying the Indian summer. A group of them were sitting on the grass outside Sentinel Towers, laughing and drinking from cans of cider.

A girl’s fragile voice sang ‘Summer Is Icumen In’.

Brianne muttered, ‘Fucking Performing Arts, don’t they ever stop performing?’

The girl’s voice was joined by others until each voice was weaving an intricate vocal pattern.

From a room where politics students had gathered to drink Polish vodka and condemn every known political system came the sound of bombs falling and machine-gun fire. They were remarkably good impressions – evidence of long hours of practice and, conversely, of the few hours spent in lectures or writing essays.

Brianne said, looking at the screen, ‘How many years, Bri?’

It was their private joke, short for, ‘How many years in prison?’

Their hacking was motivated as much by curiosity as it was by the accumulation of money.

Before Brian Junior could reply, there was a shocking crash and the door to the room fell in on them, followed seconds later by the sound of Brian Junior’s door collapsing. He tried to reach the computer to wipe the hard drive, but his wrist was chopped by a black-gloved hand. There was roaring shouting confusion.

Brianne was handcuffed, then Brian Junior. They were told to step over the splintered door, sit on the bed and keep quiet. Brian Junior could not work out who the people in the black overalls and smoked-glass helmets were.

It pained them both to see their computer, laptops, smartphones, cameras, notebooks and MP3 players packed carefully into evidence bags and cardboard boxes.

Brianne said, ‘You must know that we’re only eighteen.’ A woman’s voice said, ‘Yes, and playtime’s over, children. You work for us now So, if you wouldn’t mind removing your underwear and spreading your legs.’

When the twins’ orifices had been thoroughly examined, and they had been put into white forensic suits, they were led away. The other students in the block had been told to stay in their rooms and keep the main entrance clear.

Two people carriers with blacked-out windows waited for them at the kerb, their engines running. They were not allowed to speak before they got into separate cars, but Brianne communicated to Brian Junior that all would be well, eventually. And as Brian Junior was turned away from her, she shouted, ‘I love you, bro!’

Ho was lying in his own bed, kissing Poppy’s pregnant belly. He spoke to the baby, asking if it was a boy or a girl.

He should have been dissecting the cadaver he had been allocated, a Mrs Iris Bristol. She had donated her body to medical science because she’d spent her funeral money on a 46-inch 3D television. Ho was thinking that he ought to go back to Mrs Bristol and replace her intestines, which were strewn across the dissecting table.

Poppy had sent him a text:

Come at once

He had removed his gown, mask and boots and hurried to Poppy’s side.

She needed money again. She explained why to him, but it was a complicated story and Ho’s English was not top notch. Sometimes he thought the English textbooks he had used in China were a little out of date.

Since he had been in England, he had not heard a single person say, ‘Top hole!’

Poppy smirked at the memory of Brianne and Brian Junior being led away, in silly white suits and handcuffs. She was glad she had made the phone call. The person on the other end had asked her to keep an eye on the rest of Professor Nikitanova’s students, and she’d said delightedly, ‘It would be a pleasure.’