We don’t blame Ed. He was doing his best to help, and if he didn’t tell us about all this at the time, about what was stored up there, it could only be because he wanted to protect us.
The suicides were still fresh. The earth was still settling on the graves of our neighbours, our colleagues. It was never official, but we knew there was a connection. The air we breathed had long been full of infiltrations; our minds were clouded by smoke. We were just getting free of it, just getting clear. And Ed was kind, always looking for the best in the situation. Always finding a way forward. He would have wanted us to feel safe, to believe that the earth beneath our feet was solid, to believe that the money coming in was an investment in our future, as well as a reparation for our loss.
It was never just a theme park. It was a promise, and a hope. An act of faith.
‘I think I sort of knew,’ says Candace. ‘I think I sort of guessed something was buried up there. You get a feeling for a place. I thought it was an old feeling, just something from before our time.’
‘And I thought. Well. The dogs,’ says Ken.
‘What dogs?’ asks Greg.
‘They don’t go near the place,’ he says. ‘They always go around.’
‘I never noticed,’ says Trent. ‘I noticed the trees, though.’
We turn to him.
‘They all turned grey,’ he says.
Each of us steps back into his or her own considerations. Memories slide into place like pins in a lock. There were challenges each of us avoided, perhaps, questions each of us refrained from asking. We only saw what fitted inside our own story.
‘But Sam saw it,’ says Roger. ‘She saw the flood coming.’
Greg looks at Ivy, but she doesn’t speak. ‘Even if she did, that doesn’t make it natural,’ he says.
‘Poor Sam,’ Fiona says, stroking Quayde’s hair. He wriggles out from under her hand, much too big for petting. ‘She was just different. Kids don’t realise the consequences, often. I’m sure she never meant any harm.’
‘She got everything turned around in her head,’ says Trent. ‘It wasn’t her fault.’
‘She had a gift,’ says Roger. He gets up out of his chair and walks over to where Ivy’s sitting. He squats beside her, puts a hand on the armrest of her chair. Ivy doesn’t turn her face. In the artificial light it looks drawn and sickly, almost grey. ‘Sam had a gift. She still does, doesn’t she?’
Everyone’s looking at Ivy now, but she still won’t speak. She looks distant, distracted somehow. She’s not drinking any more. She’s folded into her body, holding it neatly still.
‘They had a name for it,’ she says at last. Even her voice sounds compacted.
‘Dyschronia,’ says Roger. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Ivy turns to him, her eyes hollow. ‘No,’ she says, frowning. Roger sinks back onto his heels, but he doesn’t stand.
‘Sequestration,’ she says.
‘Ed did mention something about that,’ says Bob. ‘Draining the reservoir.’
‘That’s right,’ says Greg. ‘It had to be drained before we could use it to store the material.’
‘Carbon dioxide, is it?’ Bob’s voice is almost hopeful.
Greg smiles thinly. ‘It’s a range of substances.’
‘Then that’s what the trucks were looking for,’ Jean says. ‘They were checking for leaks.’
‘How long have they known it was dangerous?’ Fiona asks. ‘This is criminal.’
Greg clears his throat. ‘It passed all the risk assessments. It wasn’t illegal, not at the time, it was thought the technology would develop.’ The voice has some of his father’s reassurance, we think, an inherited strength, and then we remember it can’t be genetic. ‘We didn’t think the containment would break down as fast as it has. The water table shifted faster than anyone predicted. And besides, it was the only way to keep the income stream flowing. How do you think we paid for all this?’
And we look around us at our courtyard, which once felt like such luxury. Now we see the shabbiness of the place, its timbre of loss: the unfinished edges where walls meet floors, the cracks we’ve hidden behind furniture, the thin doors between us, and the monasticism, the cell-like living, where we now huddle.
The dome, though. State-of-the-art protection.
Is that why?
Teams of stars twinkle overhead. It’s a fine night. It’s getting late.
‘It’s not much, is it,’ says Jean. ‘We’re not worth much.’ She yawns, and the yawn is passed around the room until Quayde enjoys it too much, exaggerating, and Fiona has to quiet him.
‘It isn’t personal,’ Greg says. ‘I’m trying to make the transition easy for you.’
Bob sits forward, leaning on his knees. ‘If we go, what happens to the site? They just let it leak away into the atmosphere?’ There are rules about this now, laws that prevent delayed emissions. There are probably ways to get around the rules, like there always have been.
‘The company’s obligated to recoup the loss for shareholders. There’s still some interest in the reservoir, as it happens. There’s an offer being made, but it’s conditional.’
‘Conditional on what?’
‘On its being post-settlement.’ He won’t look any of us in the eye. Not only are we worth very little, we’re a liability. Just being here, we erode the value of a dumping ground.
We look over at Ivy. She looks like she has fallen asleep, her head against her chest. Sunk into her jungle of sadness like one of those statues from a lost civilisation. A place where some tragedy has been forgotten. Suddenly sleep is all that any of us want. It’s been a long day.
‘It’s getting late,’ says Greg, as if reading our minds. He opens his case to put the tablet back inside. He takes out an orange device, studies it for a moment and then returns it. We have a strange prickling of déjà vu. ‘Are there any questions?’
‘How do we know it’s safe right now?’ Roger asks.
‘Nothing bad will happen while I’m here,’ says Greg. ‘I can promise you that much.’
Ivy wakes with a snort. She looks exhausted.
We’re all so tired. It crashes over us in a wave, like something underneath is pulling us down by our feet. All we want is the reprieve of a night’s unconsciousness. All we want is not to have to move, just for a few hours, not to have to think. We show Ivy and Greg where the spare rooms are, the extra units we left furnished in case our grown kids ever came to visit, or needed to come back. No-one ever has.
‘You’ve got till tomorrow,’ Greg says, yawning. ‘That’s the best I can offer.’
We’re safe, we remember, so long as he’s here, and we move towards our separate cells, passing the light switches, feeling our way by the walls, knowing it like sleepwalkers.