Birdkill (21 page)

‘Of course you can. I need to talk to you, too. I found out some worrying things. I’ll have to ask if you can stay over.’

‘No, it’s okay, I can’t stay. I’m getting a lift down. You can meet Clive.’

‘Who’s Clive?’

‘Not like that. He’s in security. Laters.’

She had just slipped the mobile into her bag when the kids started to arrive. They had been preparing to discuss semiotics in today’s session. Robyn had sent them off after yesterday’s class with a link to The Name of the Rose so they could watch it in what they called the ‘rumble room’, where they had a widescreen TV and home theatre setup.

The class settled, Martin as usual coming in last and throwing her a disdainful glance. ‘So. Did you watch it?’ She could see from the eager looks they had, although Martin’s pout hadn’t changed. ‘Martin? You didn’t?’

‘I did. It was pants.’

‘It wasn’t Miss. It was awesome.’ Jenny Wilson, as always, keenest and most receptive, if perhaps a little needy.

‘I want to look at some of the themes in there, which you could perhaps dig deeper into by reading the book, because of course all films transcribe books rather than being faithful to the text, but in this case the text contains so many tricks, twists and pieces of legerdemain precisely because Eco is writing as a semiotician. The themes that fascinate him in the book are quite clear and explored at some length without losing the speed and thrust of the narrative, which is a remarkable achievement.’

Simon Dillon’s hand up. ‘Simon.’

‘Semiotics is the science of signs and signals, right? It seems to wash up against Dawkin’s mimetics in some way.’

Robyn grinned and clapped her hands. ‘Precisely, it does. Early theorists took it as a distinguishing human characteristic from animals, the ability to label our world and build complex layers of learning through building our understanding of the meaning of labels. If we understand a thing, concept or situation we can label it, perhaps with more labels as we distinguish its differing characteristics. For instance, ice, water and vapour describe the states of H
₂
0.’

‘Like a meme.’

‘Of course. When someone coins a word, they give a concept or thing a label. If that label is widely accepted, it becomes a de facto reference for that thing, concept or state. We all understand what is meant, because we have all accepted the label. That’s why language lives, why twerking is now part of our lexicon, or fapping.’

‘Fapping, Miss?’

She affected weariness. ‘Simon, I won’t fall for it if you don’t admit to it.’ Laughter.

Robyn took the plunge. ‘So what we have is a way of encoding our experiences. We are born inchoate, we learn to distinguish colours and shades and then we start to learn the labels our parents teach us. As our learning increases, we learn standards of behaviour and social norms and so as we all know, our ego forms a hard carapace of behaviours that mask our fundamental unchecked desires, our id. And you could argue our id is made up of labels.’

There was a rustle in the room, eye contact between the kids. She could already sense discomfort in this new direction.

‘Our first label is usually mama or ma or a variation, also dada or papa. That’s when we finally manage to enunciate our understanding of a concept with meaning. Our parents give us meaning. John, what’s your view?’

John Appleby was staring at his hands, clenched in his lap. He rocked as his mouth worked. She had never seen him so afflicted. ‘I… I can’t say. I have. I do. I mean. I have so much. I have different meanings in my memory to that. I felt, I feel more liberated by my exploration of intellect than I do trying to explore my formless past. I drive and strive for the future and build on my now rather than getting mired in concepts and explorations that are behind me now.’ He was almost shouting, there was spittle on his lips. ‘I am me, of the future, of the ahead. I am on a road and if I look back I’ll crash because I need to move, to progress not regress.’

‘Okay, okay. That’s good, let that out but take it easy, John, calm a little. We’re good and your point is really, really valid. It’s the future that matters most, it’s the future where we are made and make our mark.’

He calmed but the room was palpably wary, the atmosphere electric. She couldn’t quite believe it. She had to be sure. It felt too dangerous to go there again, but Robyn wanted more than anything else to prove Emily Gray wrong in something so she could doubt everything the woman had told her.

‘Okay, so let’s look at some labels.’ She picked up her marker pen and strode over to the whiteboard she had never used until now. Facing the board, pen uncapped with a flourish, she called out. ‘Let’s look at some names. What are your mum’s names?’

The silence turned her. They looked at her, all of them, with the same expression of helplessness and horror on their faces. Alone of them, Martin was smiling and she felt his hot rage radiating against her like heat from a three bar fire, searing so she wanted to draw her face back. The others looked bereft, confused and betrayed. Impelled by her own momentum, she smiled and glanced around the classroom. ‘Anyone?’

Jenny Wilson started to cry, her sobs the only sound in the classroom until Simon Dillon’s chair scraped the floor and his shouldered rucksack rustled. He led the exodus. She checked her watch. Thirty minutes to the bell.

Only Martin stayed behind. ‘Nice one, teacher. Now they all hate you.’

‘They’re scared. Of their pasts. Why?’

His contempt battered her. ‘So are you of yours. Why do you think you have the right to intrude on theirs?’

‘It’s no intrusion. I just asked them.’

Martin kicked back from his chair. ‘They liked you. I couldn’t work with them when they liked you. Now they hate you, I’d not want to be in your shoes. You are going to regret the day your mother gave you a name, because their mothers never enjoyed even that little pleasure.’

She fought against the weight pressing the air out of her lungs. ‘Yours did, though, Martin. What made her so special? That she was allowed to live? Pamela?’

Again, he recoiled as if she had slapped him. She felt the familiar wash of shame at lashing out against a child. The weight on her chest lifted as he turned away from her and ran from the classroom. The sense of foreboding she felt as she scanned the empty room, the disarrayed chairs all part of the wreckage of her career teaching at the Hamilton Institute, made her want to be sick.

Robyn heaved at the door to her apartment as if it were made of granite. She leaned back against it and felt the reverberation of its lock snap against her taut back muscles. Her apartment was warm and familiar; kitchenette to her left, fireplace and cushions to her right, the window beyond, the curtains still drawn. The washing up hadn’t been done. She slumped against the door. A drink wasn’t a good idea. She’d been drinking too much. No coffee, either. Maybe she’d just sleep, but then there was the Void to worry about. To be so weary and fearful of sleep was ridiculous, yet Robyn couldn’t welcome the possibility of more dreams, not right now. She was scared enough as it was.

She slid down the door to sit with her back pressing it, her wrists on her knees. Her hand was trembling. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the cool wood. The dull thud flicked her lids open. Again, a concussion. Against the window? She faced it, a shadow against the curtains and another thump. Let it go, she thought. Leave it thumping. And yet she was drawn.

Another. She knew the sound. Leave it, reason cautioned her. She twisted to her feet, stepping across the room towards the window as it shook with the repeated beating from outside, the shadow in the curtains like a small explosion each time, fading in and out with each blow. Her breathing was shallow, fear pricking her. She tore the curtain aside to reveal glass stained with moisture from the small fluttering brown body attacking it repeatedly, flying into the barrier with its wings beating frantically. She saw with dawning horror that the bird was trying to fly away from the window, was actually desperately striving to flee the force battering it against the glass. A vicious blow squashed the tiny brown head with its charcoal beak and white feathered chest against the window. Drawing away, its head lolled and the straining wings stilled.

The limp body slammed against the window once more with such force she thought the glass must surely shatter. It left a trail of crimson amongst spattered trace works of grease from the impacts of filigree feathers.

Curled up on the orange cushions, Robyn stared at the Swedish fireplace, cold grey ashes inside. She hadn’t bothered clearing it out. She was dully aware of the sunlight deepening to orange, of the shadows lengthening.

It none of it mattered. She tried to define a tether, a rock she could grab hold of that would give her a purpose, a future beyond this place and the increasing certainty that she was losing her mind. And she failed.

The doorbell rang and she ignored it. Just a sound, just a label. An insistent label, but it didn’t matter. It was in the past each time it rang. Her mobile started ringing, the two forming a cacophony that finally forced her from her cushions. She tottered to the mobile. Mariam.

‘Hey.’

‘Answer the bloody door, we’re freezing down here.’

‘Fine, fine. Hang on.’

She delved into her bag for her purse with the card key in it and wrenched open her apartment door. She was halfway down the carpeted corridor before she realised she was barefoot and by then, well, fuck it anyway. She slapped down the wooden stairs and waved the card at the sensor. Outside Mariam was hunched alongside a fit looking guy in a brown corduroy jacket and jeans. He had cropped hair.

Mariam burst through the door. ‘Christ, Robyn, we’ve been ringing for like ten minutes.’

‘Come on up. I’m in.’

She hauled herself back up the stairs, catching them whispering behind her and wondering in an oddly dispassionate way if Mariam was screwing Mr Hunky.

He reminded her vaguely of someone. The guy in a whisky ad, that sort of thing. She left the door open for them behind her and went into the kitchenette to make some tea or something.

Mariam stood by her at the sink. ‘Robyn, are you okay?’

She stared at the glittering stream of water that dropped from the tap, a miracle of gravity, its cool freshness tumbling to drain into that little stainless steel-lined maw. She could dive into it and be taken, tumbling in the icy stream, down to the vast, comforting expanse of the sea where she could swim and splash around the brilliant coral heads.

‘Robyn!’ Mariam’s hand was on her shoulder. Robyn jumped at the touch. ‘Are you alright?’

She smiled to reassure Mariam. She didn’t like to see her friend so worried. ‘What’s new, babe?’

Mariam led Robyn over to the seating around the fireplace. ‘We’re worried. About you. This place isn’t good for you.’

Robyn couldn’t help but laugh. Mariam’s expression sobered her. She brushed her hand across her brow. ‘Look, I appreciate your concern, but I really don’t think you have the faintest idea of what’s going on here. This place is wrong at every level. Not good for me? It’s hardly good for the kids here. Lawrence Hamilton is running a full-on breeding programme here. These kids are all orphans, they all lost their mothers in childbirth. And they were all born in the same maternity hospital, owned by a gentleman called Lawrence Hamilton. He killed their mums and they don’t know it.’

Clive Warren craned forward. ‘That’s a pretty sweeping accusation.’

‘It’s the truth.’ Robyn shrugged.

‘Martin Oakley’s mum survived childbirth. She’s still alive.’

‘She’s the only one, or one of a very few. One of the teachers was let go because she was asking questions. She looked into the background of the kids in her class and found out about their mums and the maternity unit, a place called the Mayview Clinic or something like that. I sent you the files. I didn’t believe her until this afternoon, until I tested it on my own class.’ Mariam took her hand, but Robyn pressed on. ‘They went into a funk when I started talking about parents. Not one could name their mother. They walked out on me. The whole class.’

‘Can you still access those files?’ Warren was urgent. ‘Can we look them up and check this out?’

Robyn shrugged. ‘I guess.’ She leaned down to prise her notebook from the floor, pulling out the charging cable and swiping the screen to type her password. She logged into the network, pulled up Jenny Wilson’s record and tapped the protected folder. She keyed 12345 and passed the notebook to Warren. He scanned the screen, pulled open folders and swiped through documents.

‘Shit!’ He recoiled from the screen. ‘Access revoked. We’ve just been busted.’

‘I guess that’s game over for Robyn Shaw, at any rate.’ Robyn took the machine from Warren. ‘Did you find what you wanted?’

‘I should have copied the folder first, I’m an idiot. But yes, her mother died in childbirth at the Mayview Clinic. It doesn’t mean to say all their mums died the same way.’

Robyn caught Mariam’s enquiring glance at Warren and his almost imperceptible nod in answer. Mariam’s voice softened. ‘Robyn, we’ve been looking into things from our end, too. There’s a lot to put together in this jigsaw, but we’ve been investigating a military operation that Hamilton’s involved in. It’s linked back to here in some way, he’s just secured a massive round of funding for the Institute backed by the US military. His people conducted field trials for a battlefield drug called Odin. In Lebanon.’

Robyn felt a terrible black apprehension hit her. She willed Mariam to stop, was in the act of pulling her hands back to block her when the words came to her, seemingly through a mist of cotton wool. Mariam’s voice was muffled. ‘Do you have any memory of soldiers?’

The Void slammed into her like a tsunami, took her away and bore her up on its mad, black tide only to smash her broken body down on the beach. She couldn’t breathe, the blackness reaching into her soul and leaching away her very sense of self and place in its nihilistic tide.

Flies tickle your raped cunt.