Everything is white: a passage with many interleading doors is made up of clean white floor tiles, white painted walls, a whitewashed cement ceiling. They walk along the passage and make a few turns. Every corner looks the same and Kirsten wonders how they’ll ever find their way out again. They are rats in a 4D maze. She takes as many photos as she can with her locket. Some of the doors seem to lead to more passages; others open up to deserted labs. Huge machines whirr away. Ivory Bead. Wet Sugar. Coconut Treat. A hundred shades of white. Stuttering holograms of static. Glass upon glass upon glass.
The employees seem to have left in a hurry: Seth sees half-drunk cups of tea, open desk drawers, an out-of-joint stapler, an abandoned cardigan.
Air sanitiser streams in through the air vents, sounding like the sea. It reminds Kirsten of being on a ghost ship, many of which she explored, looted and floating endlessly on the Indian Ocean. Why had she been so captivated by stories of the Somali pirates? Because she had known all along, had a deeply buried awareness, that she, herself, had been kidnapped. Her life had been seized, snatched, carried off. It left her an empty vessel, unmoored. Haunted.
‘That book I gave you,’ says James, ‘The fairytale. Hansel and Gretel. I gave it to you for a reason. Do you understand, Kitty? It was for a reason. I have a file on your real parents. I’ve tried to give it to you a thousand times, but every time I… I knew if I gave it to you we’d end up here.’
At the end of a nondescript passage Mouton pushes them into a room. They are shocked by the sound of a friendly dog barking. A beagle rushes to Mouton and nuzzles his shin with a low whine and a wet nose. Mouton opens a drawer, takes out a treat, and feeds it to the hound. Gives her a cursory pat on the head, gives her loose skin a gentle shake. Locks Seth’s and Kirsten’s guns away in a safe full of meticulously arranged weapons.
Kirsten recalls the image of dog hair on Betty/Barbara’s jersey, remembers the journo telling her that Betty/Barbara’s flat had dog food bowls, but no dog. Seth looks up, at the opposite wall, and Kirsten raises her eyes too. They stand and stare.
Pinned, stapled, and tied to the vast wall are hundreds of objects. Rings, coins, photographs, pieces of jewellery, dead flowers, frayed ribbons, candy, baby shoes, old toys. Like a vast artwork, a collage of found objects, except they know as they are looking that these objects were not found, but taken. Special things stolen from the people he had killed. Objets d’amour. Not just a regular serial killer’s bounty of murder mementoes. Not just a random hairclip or sweater or cufflink, but tokens of genuine affection. Layer upon layer of love, lost.
A love letter engraved on an antique piano key. A muddied toy rabbit. An Olympic gold medal. She sees the Holograph photo-projector she had given to her parents. Both feel their rage build. The beagle barks. Mouton ushers them out of the room and raps loudly on the adjacent double door. A voice inside instructs him to enter, and they tumble in.
The room couldn’t be more different to the bleached Matrix of the way in: soft light, warm colours, wood and gold, linen, organic textures. It’s someone’s office. No, more intimate than that: someone’s den. Keke is lying on the couch, as pale as Kirsten had ever seen her. She runs over, puts her hand over her mouth to see if she is still breathing, and she is, but the movements are shallow. How long has she been unconscious? Her nano-ink tattoo is so vivid it looks as if it is embossed, and her body is slick with perspiration. James hands her a black clamshell kit (New Tyre) that she unzips. Three brand new vials of insulin stare back at her. Kirsten fumbles with the case with shaking hands, can’t seem to co-ordinate her fingers. Eventually she gets a vial out, then looks for syringes, needles, but can’t find them. She hadn’t even considered this part: that she would have to load the syringe and inject her friend. Her trembling hands are all but useless.
‘Let me do it,’ says James. He finds something that looks like a pen in the side pouch, snaps the vial of insulin into it, and presses it against Keke’s thigh. He presses a button and Kirsten hears the hiss of the jab, watches as the vial empties. He puts the back of his hand to her forehead, then measures her blood sugar, pressure and pulse with his phone.
‘She’s going to be okay,’ he says. Kirsten doesn’t answer him, doesn’t look at him, pushes him out of the way and grabs Keke’s hand, bunches it into a tight fist, covers it with a blanket.
‘We wouldn’t have let her die,’ comes a voice from behind the mahogany desk. Dr Van der Heever swirls around in his chair and Kirsten recognises the icy irises behind his black-rimmed glasses (Wet Pebble).
‘You,’ says Kirsten. The word comes out the colour of trailing seaweed.
The doctor nods at Mouton, who forces Seth’s hands behind his body and clicks handcuffs on him. James takes Kirsten’s arm out of her sling to handcuff her. He does it as gently as possible, trying not to hurt her. She winces and squirms at his touch, as if his skin burns hers. There is a neat, metallic click, a perfect aqua-coloured square. She doesn’t see the second click, the bracelet for her injured arm, and James squeezes that same hand. She glares at him and he looks away. Slowly she tests the cuffs, and it’s true: he has left one open.
The doctor notices her hostility.
‘Dear Kate, don’t blame James,’ he says. ‘He had no choice but to bring you in.’
‘There’s always a choice,’ says Kirsten.
‘True. His options were: find a way of bringing you two in, or see you die. He has seen Inspector Mouton’s… convincing… work. He chose to bring you in.’
‘Mouton has been the one killing for you? A policeman?’ she asks the doctor. Then, to Mouton: ‘You killed those people? A sick woman, a young mother?’
‘He was simply following orders. He is extremely good at his line of work.’
‘Plus he gets to clean up the mess when he walks in as an inspector. I bet he’s really good at covering his tracks,’ says Seth.
‘Just one of his many talents,’ says the doctor.
‘Why?’ asks Kirsten, ‘Why the list, why the murders?’
Doctor Van der Heever pauses, as if considering whether to answer.
‘It’s complicated,’ he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Keke’s breathing seems to get deeper; her sheen is disappearing.
‘The truth is,’ says the doctor, ‘the truth is that Deletion is always a last resort. We did everything we could to stop it from getting to this stage. Unfortunately, people don’t always know what is good for them. Or their daughters.’
‘You mean my parents? My so-called parents?’
‘Your – adoptive – mother. After being loyal for over thirty years she suddenly decided that she wanted to tell you about your past. She was a brilliant scientist, a real asset to the Project. Her decline was most unfortunate. If she had just been quiet, as she had been all these years… so many lives could have been spared.’
‘Including hers?’
‘Including hers. Your father’s. And your cell’s.’
‘What? Cell?’
‘Your mother deciding to tell you about the Genesis Project compromised the cell. We don’t take chances. Compromised cells are closed down, their members removed from the program.’
‘Killed,’ says Seth.
‘Deleted is our preferred term.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ says Kirsten.
‘Every generation,’ says the doctor, interlacing his fingers in front of him on the desk, ‘the Genesis Project selects 7 very special infants to join the program. We are very rigorous when it comes to this selection and hundreds of babies all over the country are considered. They need to match certain – strict – criteria. They must be absolutely healthy, highly intelligent, and have some special talent or gift. Also, during their gestation, their parents must have at some time seriously considered family planning—’