What he’d said to the Parson had worried her too. He hadn’t properly answered her about it afterwards. She had no knowledge of his connection to the first families or of his alleged understanding of the old customs. Whatever he’d said to Parson Mary Simonson had done the trick temporarily, but what if she decided to take things further? Maya wasn’t going to let it go that far. She was a mother and she had duties she would not ignore, even if her husband ignored his. Dear Father, she thought, losing the children was what was at stake here; the end of their family and everything they had worked together to build. How could Richard care so little?
There was worse; if they were found to be wilfully negligent of the twins, and that seemed a provable point with the right evidence, they both stood to be tried and have their status as townsfolk revoked. There was no way back from a judgement like that.
So. No. There was no reason for guilt.
There was instead a reason to be happy, a reason to be hopeful about the future instead of terrified of it. On the counter in front of her, wrapped neatly in white paper, were packs of steak, links of sausage, and two huge joints that she could roast and then make soups and casseroles from. It was a large stack of parcels, mysterious gifts addressed to no one in particular.
They were all hers now.
She’d almost forgotten about the furtive, insistent movements behind her until her head banged gently on one of the cupboard doors. The movement stopped and she turned her head towards the stairs, listening. Was there a small footstep? She strained her ears into the early evening silence. There was nothing to hear. The movement began again. Soon she would cook the dinner.
Her mouth watered at the thought of it.
Whittaker, wisps of snowy hair sprouting from his ears and nose, looked very unhappy.
‘What is it this time?’
His voice was wheezy, air passing over tuneless strings. Rawlins sneezed three times in a row.
‘Same as before. Births. And deaths.’
‘Something a little more recent, I hope,’ said Whittaker, trying for a smile and missing. ‘It took days for the dust to settle after your last visit.’
The Parson appraised him for a few moments. Whittaker stroked a tuft of his moustache and attempted to maintain the smile that wasn’t quite on his face.
‘Tell me, Whittaker, did you eat well last night?’
‘Oh yes, very well indeed.’
‘Might I enquire what you had?’
‘Steak, Parson. The very best and tenderest steak.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘I’m fifty-one.’
She nodded slowly.
‘Fifty-one years old. That’s a rare age indeed.’
Believing he was being complimented, Whittaker’s smile burst out from its hiding place. Long teeth, the colour of ancient ivory, leaned drunken.
‘I put it to you, Whittaker, that were it not for your employment within the Welfare, you would have been dead long ago. I expect you to assist me in any way you can and be grateful that dust is the greatest of your torments. Otherwise, I may be persuaded that you are, in fact, too old to perform your duties here and I will recommend your immediate and unpaid dismissal.’
It was as though Whittaker and Rawlins had both woken from a deep slumber of many years’ duration and had begun to see their surroundings for the first time. She smiled to see them trying to find something useful to do.
‘Now, I shall be at the far end of the archives, the very dustiest part. Listen for my call, as I may need your help. Otherwise, be sure to send Rawlins down with a glass of milk from time to time.’
She went carefully, liking the dust no more than them. She lifted her hems and stepped over and onto the carpet of dead particles leaving the footprint of her heavy Welfare boots. Still the motes rose up in her passing and twisted like spirits in the air behind her.
It was the oldest records she wanted. Records from when the Welfare began. Records from the creation onwards. Most of the townsfolk believed the town had been created by God. A pure settlement commanded from the poisonous wasteland. Parson Mary Simonson was among them. As a Parson, it was her duty to instil in people the importance of the words in the Book of Giving and, though there were Parsons whose faith wasn’t always apparent, she took this gospel for truth.
‘In the beginning there was the promise and the promise was God. God filled the void with His presence. He commanded fire and fire arose in the void. From the fire He commanded the wasteland and the wasteland was so. But the wasteland was without life. From the wasteland God commanded the Town and he named it Abyrne. But the town was silent and empty and so God commanded the townsfolk that they might fill Abyrne with life and that they might dwell in the town forever. But the townsfolk hungered and their hunger filled God’s heart with great sorrow. He commanded the Chosen that the townsfolk might never be hungry again. He commanded the grain fields that the Chosen might always be fatted. And thus was the town and all that is in it created and ever shall it be so.’
Simple words for God’s simple townsfolk. She loved the words and knew the whole Book of Giving by heart. Even so, she still read from it as though the act of reading strengthened the message. Here in the office of records, she was accessing a time only a few generations before, when the first families of the townsfolk were brought into existence. They arrived with all their skills and tools and technology and began to live in the town in the way God required. They had the Book of Giving and they had their faith and that was all they needed. Very little had changed in the town since then.
She wanted to find the first Shantis and see what she could learn about them. Maybe there was a clue in previous generations to the enigma that was Richard Shanti. If not, she would search more recent records to see who else had been born around the same time. There was a good chance that Richard Shanti was who he said he was. Equally, he might be lying.
She was going to find out which, one way or another.
Eight
Maya stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened. The twins often played quietly together but the smell of food wafting up the stairs to their bedroom usually brought them down. She’d been cooking for half an hour and dinner was almost ready but there was no sign of the girls.
Their bedroom door was closed. They usually left it that way when they were playing and then begged her to leave it open at lights-out time. Maya could hear their small voices, a note of excitement in their whispers. But why were they whispering? And why did the door now seem closed so purposefully? She was probably imagining it but it felt like there was an invisible ‘keep out’ sign nailed to it.
Instead of calling them down to wash their hands before dinner, she began to climb the stairs. She trod to the outer edges of each step where there was less movement in the wood and therefore less noise. Reaching the landing, the stairs doubled back on themselves and continued upward. Maya was especially stealthy over the last few steps.
The voices of her daughters were louder now but still not distinct. She thought she heard the theatrical smacking of lips and the ‘mmms’ of someone enjoying cake. So, that was it. A dolly’s tea party. No wonder they were so engrossed. She’d played the game herself as a child and remembered how utterly diverting it had been. Plump guests, furry guests, shiny guests, wooden guests, each eating and drinking their fill, each complimenting the hostess.
She turned the door handle as quietly as she could, hoping to glimpse their play. She wanted a moment in which she could return to their simple innocence and in doing so briefly turn away from the realities of the town and her life with Richard.