Geoff Ryman - Child Garden

Milena took the other arm. She felt Rolfa lean on her, exhausted. They walked through the concertina, down a white corridor to a little room with old chairs. As she was leaving, Root gave Milena a wry grin, and waved her to follow into the corridor, to talk.

‘Your friend, you know, she shakes with both hands.’ Root’s eyebrows were raised, her cheeks were bursting with amusement, her tiny hand on its fat wrist was placed delicately over her breast.

What was the woman talking about? Milena began to have an uncomfortable creeping feeling. ‘I think she’s left-handed, actually.’

‘Now don’t let on you don’t know!’ insisted Root. ‘We see it all here, nothing bothers us.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Your friend. She wants to botty-bump with other ladies.’ Root covered her face and hooted with laughter. ‘Oh, the shapes humankind gets in. We see them all! But a little rough justice and it all works out.’

Milena went still and cold. ‘She likes other women.’

‘Oh, loves them, love. Loves you.’

‘Can we stop this?’ Milena asked. Her voice was a croak.

Root shook her head sadly. ‘It’s the law,’ she said. Her vast buttocks made her white skirt rustle as she walked away.

Milena turned and walked into the room. She saw Rolfa sitting, smiling, looking through the whole world to somewhere else.

‘Rolfa,’ Milena said. ‘I love you. I want to sleep with you — I mean — I want to have sex with you.’

Rolfa began to grin. She covered her eyes. ‘This is a fine time to tell me.’

‘I tried before, but I couldn’t.’

Rolfa began to laugh.

‘It’s not funny!’ Milena did an anguished little dance.

‘It’s ficken hilarious! It’s the funniest thing I ever heard.’ Rolfa took Milena’s hand, and shook her head. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I don’t know. I was afraid. Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Because you’re a human being, and I thought you’d be cured! You told me. You said. I had all those viruses when I was ten years old!’

Oh merciful heaven. Something so simple. Milena whispered. ‘But I was never Read. They gave me viruses to educate me. But I was never Read. I was never cured.’ And I never talked about not being Read, because I was afraid of being found out. I never said anything because I was afraid. But they knew all along.

I had Rolfa. I had Rolfa all along. And now they’re going to destroy her.

Rolfa was laughing. ‘All those nights! Should I touch her, shouldn’t I touch her, no I mustn’t, they cure these people.’ She looked down at Milena’s hand and played with its fingers. ‘Who needs viruses, when you’ve got fear?’ She looked up at Milena, still smiling. ‘We’ll have some time,’ she promised. ‘However long, we’ll have it.’

Root rustled back into the room. Involuntarily, Milena jumped away. Rolfa pulled her back.

‘A little bit of honey,’ Root said, ‘and a touch of immuno-sup-pression.’ She bounced her hips back and forth with the rhythm of the words. She was wearing pink gloves. ‘Now. Stick out your tongue at me. Going to give you Candy.’

Run away, thought Milena. She contemplated violence, pushing the huge nurse over and running. But where? Where was the way out?

Rolfa stuck her tongue out like a naughty girl. Root said, ‘That’s the spirit,’ and dabbed the tongue with a finger of the glove.

‘And that’s all there is to it. You’ll begin to feel ill in about three hours. Just relax, drink some fluids. No booze, now. Any complications, use your Postperson and let me know, and I’ll be straight around.’ She turned and her eyes flicked towards Milena. ‘This is a main virus,’ Root told her. ‘It’s contagious.’

Milena looked back at her bleakly.

‘Rough justice,’ said Root the Terminal. ‘But less rough than it used to be, I tell you that.’

Then she helped Rolfa to her feet and led her out of the room. Milena followed. There was nothing else she could do.

Outside, it was Indian Summer, almost warm with patchy sunlight and racing shadows of clouds. Fat pigeons limped across the stretch of green beside Lambeth Bridge. It was mid-afternoon and most people were working. A circle of teenage boys, their shirts open, sat on the lawn drinking and playing a desultory game of cards. On the bridge, a wagon had broken its axle and kegs of beer had split open on the slope of the bridge, sudsy and bitter-smelling. Children paddled in it, kicking at the seagulls that had gathered.

‘I didn’t know about your mother,’ said Milena as they walked.

‘She left us,’ said Rolfa. ‘She didn’t like Papa.’

‘Where did she go?’ Milena asked.

Rolfa turned and gave her a very peculiar smile. ‘Antarctica,’ she said.

They walked on in silence past what had once been the palace of an archbishop. They knew they were going to make love, and Milena knew that she was going to catch the virus. She wanted to catch the virus. She did not want to be left behind. It was not something she needed to think about. Sex complicates, but it is the power of love to simplify.

They walked past the hospital that Florence Nightingale had founded, and past another small park, listening to seagull cries. They passed into the enfolding stone arms of the Shell, its forecourt, and then up the stairs.

Finally, in their small, cold, crowded room, they made love and it was both more ordinary and more strange than Milena had imagined, as ordinary and as strange as rainfall.

Then the shivering began. Rolfa was cold. Milena piled on blankets. Rolfa complained how dry and sore her sinuses were. Milena kept a kettle boiling in the little room, to keep the air moist. The steam hung in the air like a fog.

‘It’s like a buzz,’ said Rolfa. ‘It goes all along your arm and right into your head.’ Milena got her cups of hot water. The steam seemed to help. Rolfa’s voice went smooth again, and she drank the water thirstily, gulping, and sat up on the bed. Milena lay beside her, put her head on her stomach. It gurgled, and they both laughed. Outside, it was growing dark. The city disappeared.

‘I’m going to sing,’ said Rolfa.

Milena fumbled for the candle, fumbled under the bed for the paper and before she found it, the song began. Hold, hold it! she thought and began without the beginning.

It was like the final chorus of Beethoven’s Ninth or the Hallelujah Chorus, simple and powerful and happy. Rolfa smiled as she sang it. She was singing about her life seen whole. Somewhere, Milena was part of it.

‘Give it a rest!’ someone shouted from an upper floor.

Rolfa’s smile was broader, and she raised her voice.

‘Qui—et!’ howled someone else.

Milena slammed open her window. ‘Someone’s dying!’ she roared in fury. For her, it was true.

When it ended, slowly, peacefully complete, Rolfa made a tracing in the air with her hand. She and Milena looked at each other in the unsteady light, in silence.

Then, with a self-mocking smile, Rolfa made, perfectly, the sound of massed applause. To an actor, it is nothing less than the sound of justice being done.

Milena pulled the counterpane up over her, and kissed her, and Rolfa slept, and during the night, the illness passed. In the morning, when Milena tried to kiss her, Rolfa turned her head. Milena passed her a cup of tea. ‘I drink this, I get bigger. Like a big person,’ said Rolfa. That afternoon she said, ‘I think I’m well enough to get out of bed.’ She threw back the counterpane. Her cheeks, her arms, her shoulders were covered in stubble. Slowly, still slightly dazed, she began to pack her few things — the huge cheap clothes, her apron, her frying fork.