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With my palette knife, I smear together titanium white and burnt sienna until they streak, then merge into the colour of Jaime’s skin tone. I pick a flat brush, dab it into the paint, lift it and pause, feeling raw – for that first moment of putting colour on is always clumsy. It is a moment where I am still an individual standing before an easel, before the grace of surrender comes, when the painting finds its form and paints its strokes through me. Sketched on to the canvas is an outline of Jaime, back when he was Jaimus. I want to capture that night in the last book, in Carpathia, in the Garmoshka tavern. He is on stage, holding his yukuri. I’ve accentuated the spotlight so that the triangle of golden light is stark against the black of the stage. The lower half of the painting captures the audience, seated at tables. My head will be in the far right corner, feather boa around my neck, a curve of bottle on the table. I fill the oval of his face with a lighter colour, then his neck, his collarbone, his fine fingers poised on the instrument. For the yukuri, I am planning to blend Prussian blue and ultramarine, to heighten the waxwing’s colours into hummingbird richness. For the strings I will paste in Jaime’s own fine hairs.
I wonder if I will finish ‘Jaimus the Yukuri-Player’ before he leaves in two days’ time. I want it to be my goodbye gift to him; it will hang here, awaiting his return. It will be the first in a series of Carpathia pictures featuring blood, wolves and 406snow. I wish I could replicate myself: one part Raisa, working day and night in ecstatic frenzy, in those blues of night when the world is silent and magic dances and the brush begins to do extraordinary things; the other part Rachel, spending every last minute with her husband and son. I picture myself in two days’ time, sitting here, Jaime’s mug unused in the cupboard, his jeans hanging in the wardrobe, his guitar still in the living room.
I dreamt of my mother last night. In the months after she died, she often haunted my dreams. There, we reconnected, laughed, tried on clothes together, painted each other. Then came the dream in which we were going down in a lift together. She was holding a large white suitcase and told me that she was going to go away for a while. Last night’s dream was vague, but it brought a sense of peace in being reunited. As my brush works over the canvas, shading in Jaime’s face, I bequeath this painting to her – I’m sorry, I whisper.
I think of her house in Woking, the one in my old life, where a new family are now living. I saw it for sale on Google. I wanted to visit, but my agoraphobia was too strong by then; I had to content myself with imagining a kid, their parents sleeping in the bed she once slept in, opening the windows to gaze out at the cherry tree in the garden that she planted.
In that world, the end of my painting career was an act of self-destruction. Without my mother, I felt spineless. What was the point of achieving anything without her pride to shine a spotlight on it? Who would or could ever love me as she had? And so I picked a fight with my gallery owner. I came up with a terrible idea for an exhibition, as a way of getting him to fire me, unprepared for how sharp the sting of regret would be as I woke, day after day, thinking: I blew it, I blew it. The gallery 407owner ignored my emails and calls begging forgiveness. The odd article turned up online with headlines like whatever happened to rachel levy. When I ran out of money, canvases were replaced by wallpaper, my fridge, old paper.
A flicker of worry: I consider how I will survive in this world, now that my job at Cybersenx is over. Perhaps it will inspire me, spur me on to create the best exhibition of my life. Or, perhaps I will just end up pawning Jaime’s vintage gramophone.
The click of the front door: Jaime is back. I set down my brush, despite Raisa’s voice urging me to paint on.
‘You’ve been painting?’ Jaime asks delicately.
I nod, still in the zone. Then smile. ‘I feel like I’m a stained-glass window.’
Jaime gives me an affectionate, puzzled smile. His hands are behind his back.
‘I got you a present on the way back.’
‘My Jaimus.’
‘My Raisa.’ He reveals it: a feather boa. ‘They only had green.’ I tell him I love it. He drapes it around my neck, pulls me in for a kiss.
‘So …’ I ask.
‘So …’ He steps back, puts his hands in his pockets, which makes me think the news is bad. ‘I talked to the Booksurfer Agency.’
‘Yes?’ My voice is high with impatience.
‘They don’t have any Soma tea. They looked quite shocked when I asked for it – it’s banned in this book. But do you remember that, at the end of the last book, the doctor said this could be a bridge back to Fate? The agency does have a copy of Thomas Turridge. So I’m going to head back that way …’
‘Via Fate’s world?’ 408
‘Yes,’ he says, with a touch of uncertainty. ‘I figure that I can find Gwent, and get some Soma tea from him before Fate realises I’m there.’
‘OK,’ I say, slowly. ‘Well, if it’s the only way …’ I hug him tight. ‘Come with me,’ he whispers into my hair, ‘come with me.’
When I don’t reply, he pulls back, frowning. ‘There’s another thing,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘Finn could come too … I just asked casually, and they said yes. Which means—’
‘What?’
‘That they’ve done it before. They say it can work – there are kids who have been back and forth.’
‘Well, of course he can’t,’ I flare up, shocked at Jaime’s naivety, casting me as the responsible parent for once. ‘It wouldn’t be safe for him – imagine Fate, seeing our son – it’d be like throwing him to the lions!’
‘Fine.’ Jaime sighs in defeat, drumming his fingers on the counter. ‘In that case, I’ll definitely go through with selling my company. I’ve got an interested buyer; I’m seeing him tomorrow.’
‘But we – you – spent years building it up!’ I cry.
‘Hey,’ he says, looking confused, ‘I did it for you.’
‘We could have discussed it. It’s such a big decision, and you just went ahead and did it.’
‘I just don’t want you to worry about money while I’m away – now you can paint the whole of the Carpathia series.’
‘Thank you,’ I say at last, frowning, touching his cheek.
We both jump as the Help, who has been silent all this while, interjects to offer us both a cup of tea.
Later that evening, Jaime packs a case to help Finn feel reassured of his father’s return; when he goes to bed, we hide the 409case up in the loft. We go to bed early and make love very slowly, gazing into each other’s eyes. He falls asleep with his head on my chest and I stroke his hair, beset with worries. The sale of his business feels so final. What if real life binds him into a new existence, what if new samskaras form? He has promised he will return in six weeks. I have marked the date on my calendar. But what if that day comes, and Finn and I sit and wait for a knock on the door, and there is nothing? What if he were to die in Fate’s world and I became a widow without even knowing it?
Five a.m. I’m awake again, my sleep fractured with grief. I hear him whispering that he can’t sleep either. We make love again, a little desperately, as though we might slip beneath skin and nail. No matter how many times we say ‘I love you,’ it never seems enough, we have to say it again and again, until the words become pure sound. Every so often, my eyes creep to the neon clock and I can’t help but keep count: eighteen hours until he leaves us; twelve hours; ten hours. I try to imagine the moment of our goodbye and I tell myself not to be melodramatic, to remain stoical.
At nine o’clock, with six hours to go before he departs, Jaime takes the car into the city to finalise his financial affairs. Finn becomes convinced that this is the final goodbye. He curls his arms around Jaime’s leg and clamps himself to it, screaming, and I have to prise him off. Jaime looks shaken, close to tears himself, and hurries off for his appointment. I tell Finn that he can have the day off school as a special treat and we go out for a walk with the dodo. In the local park, I see a robot sitting on the grass with a sign declaring that he’s an Empath, and newly homeless; a dirty cup filled with coins sits by his feet. I think 410of Alek. Two weeks have passed since we slept together, but it feels like two months, the memory hazy and distant. My complete abandonment of him is still an ache in my conscience. I wonder how he might be surviving in Shantytown; how long he can last out there. But he has no phone, no email, and to have visited him again would have spelled the end of my marriage.
Back home, we open the door to find the air is sweet. In the kitchen, we encounter the Help standing beside a tray of cupcakes, icing waterfalling from a piping bag in his frozen hand, rippling over the counter and pooling on the floor. Finn looks anxious.
‘Has he died too?’ He clutches my hand tight. ‘Mum, why’s everyone dying?’
I feel like weeping that I have no idea how the hell the world works.
‘Dad will be able to fix him,’ I say, adopting a brave voice. I pull a cake from the tray and give it to Finn. There is something tragic about the Help’s final expression, as though he wanted to say goodbye. I find myself putting a tea towel over his head. Another ally lost. We can ill afford a replacement. The flat will feel empty without him.
When Jaime comes home, he attempts to play God. But despite dismantling the Help’s spine and tapping instructions into his hard drive, he can’t resuscitate him.
My mobile rings. It’s Claire, which means a boring work crisis: I ignore it, but it buzzes again, and again, so I pick up.
‘Hello?’ I say in a ragged voice.
At first I fear she’s ringing me to say we’ve both been fired, but it’s worse, far worse. Her words are staccato and when the call ends, I find that I can’t move. My first thought is: How will Finn survive without his mother? My second: Jaime can’t leave. 411
‘I just can’t seem to get him to wake up …’ Jaime trails off when he sees my face.
‘I think I’m cursed,’ I hear myself say, voice raw with tears. ‘First Mum, then the Help, now Alek. What if I carry it with me, wherever I go?’
‘Alek? He’s dead?’
‘He mutilated someone. He attacked them in the street, he cut off their ear. It’s all my fault, I ignored the rules, I introduced him to art that was way too strong for him. He’s been arrested.’ I sink down on to the sofa and bury my face in my hands. ‘Oh God.’
‘You’re not responsible; it’s his algorithms, he’s not human, Rachel. And you didn’t create this plot. He’s not your problem anymore,’ Jaime asserts. ‘Forget about him.’
‘I can’t – they’re coming after me.’
‘What the fuck?’
‘There’s a warrant out for my arrest. It’s never happened before – but it’s protocol now. Claire says they’ve already arrested another therapist whose patient went crazy after Cybersenx released him. He’s being made a scapegoat. She thinks they’ll charge me for Alek’s crime: for abuse or neglect of a robot.’
Finn runs over, jumps on to my lap, and clings to me. I bury my face in his shoulder, and finally, with resentment, I surrender:
‘We’ll all have to leave together.’ I let out a small, bitter laugh. ‘The narrator seems to be colluding with you.’
Jaime’s face is bright with elation.
‘How about it, Finn – a holiday?’
‘What about the dodo?’ Finn’s voice crumples. ‘Isn’t he coming with us?’ 412
Jaime reassures Finn that he’ll sort out the dodo, perhaps return him to the pet shop, which provokes another tantrum. I watch Jaime comforting him as I pick at a thread on a cushion. I recall the softness of Alek’s caresses, the earnestness in his eyes as he sought to please me. I try to connect it with the image of Alek severing muscle, tearing skin, but I can’t bring the two together. I am Alek’s Pygmalion as much as his creator was; I gently shaped him in our weekly sessions. I hoped to heal him but instead I failed him. After our recent night together, it is easier to assuage my guilt by telling myself, He’s only a Robo, denying all that is exquisite and beautiful in him, reducing him to caricature. I would never have treated him that way if he was human. Perhaps I am no better than the Cybersenx corporates.
‘Maybe I should stay another day or so, for Alek,’ I interrupt them. I see Jaime’s expression darken with jealousy. ‘Not for that – because he’s my responsibility …’
‘We stay, and you get locked up,’ Jaime asserts. ‘No way.’
‘OK,’ I relent. ‘Fine. Let’s go now.’
Finn comes over, squeezing my hand, reminding me of my responsibility to him. I tell myself that to sit here and wallow in guilt is an indulgence; I must harden my heart against Alek once more, in order to save my son.
Adrenaline focuses us. Jaime comes up with a solution: he calls a neighbour, asking him if he’ll look after the dodo, and I send Finn into his bedroom to pick a favourite teddy to take with him. Ten minutes later, we leave the flat. As I twist the key in the door, I feel a pinch at the thought of the paints still drying on my canvas, knowing I’ll never be able to display it or get to finish the series. In the back of the car, Jaime reaches for me.
‘I could never have said goodbye to you anyway,’ he says, and I manage a smile. Every time we hear the wail of a siren, 413my body locks in apprehension, then trembles with relief as it fades. We still can’t be sure if the narrator wants to send us safely on our way or we’ll find ourselves in a cell again, forming a repetitive pattern of damnation. I feel the betrayal of it, the plot twists, the way various threads have been woven together carefully, knowingly, like I’m in some Greek tragedy where the more I struggle against my fate, the more the noose tightens.
We arrive at the Booksurfing hub. The staff are friendly, accommodating, and agree to book us in as a trio. We’re each strapped into a seat and given a glass of water, as well as a simple Grand Kuding pill.
We hold hands as they take effect. Jaime keeps on speaking all the way, to reassure our son: ‘We’re going on holiday, Finn, we’re going to go as a family, and it’s all going to be all right, I swear …’ As his voice fogs and fades, I think of our beautiful flat, my feather boa curled on the bed, the Help standing frozen in the kitchen, my paints, Jaime’s vinyls, Finn’s toys, all losing their colours as we pass into the next book, becoming sketches, becoming blanks; and that quote from Vincent Van Gogh comes to mind, his painting of ‘The Old Church Tower at Nuenen’, and how he wanted it to convey ‘how perfectly simple death and burial is, as simple as the falling of autumn leaves’. 414