“Hey, no need to feel afraid, you daft mutt,” I whisper, trying to swallow away the lump in my throat. “It’s only a power cut. I’ve got you now, baby. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.” I kiss her on her button nose.
I glance over at the far wall again. I’ll be lucky if I hear from the solicitors today; it’s Christmas Day, after all. But there’s a small chance, and I pray the power cut is a short one.
I pull the colorful blanket closer around us both, Papa’s light citrus-and-
herby scent still very much present in its threads. I spent months crocheting the bright squares from various unwanted woolens. Papa insisted it was the best Eid present he ever received. My chest tightens.
Of all the moments for the power to fail, curse it. It had taken Theo days to perfect the clips once he unearthed them from Papa’s album files, to ensure both cuts would look like one real scene. Still, it was only a projection. To think I’d secretly entertained the idea Papa might actually come home this morning—a compassionate release by the authorities.
I hang my head. Mama’s spirited laugh from the footage plays in my mind. I was only three when it was recorded, so I can’t recall the actual memory. I take a deep breath. “God bless you, Mama. Rest in peace.” Mama suddenly passed away in her sleep a year after that recording.
“Hang in there, Papa, wherever you are,” I whisper, placing my hand on the window and fixing my gaze on the familiar unknown stretched out before me. Detained in a facility in London is all I’ve been told of his whereabouts. Somewhere out there in the city, in its obscure and cloudy expanse, is my whole life. The routine ache pulls at me, tugging away at my insides and latching on to every thought. His absence is unbearable.
I tap my feet and glance over at the far wall again. Come on.
White emergency lighting beams through the green-blue of the early morning waters that stretch high above me. A lengthy form shoots past, startling Jojo. She tucks her head into my jumper. The shape slows down. An eel. It wriggles against the window and swims away, rising to follow the taillights of a four-manned security sub. All around the water fluorescent and phosphorous lights flash by as a mixture of police, ambulance, and structural integrity vehicles speed past.
“Looks serious, Jojo.” I nuzzle the puppy, trying to ignore the obvious dread: Could the power cut be Anthropoid related?
A large Newsbot—resembling a sphere of crushed wreckage and blipping lights—whizzes by the window. Moments later a number of them, each bearing the logos of various news stations, race through the waves trailing the vehicles. It’s serious, then.
A ping sounds as the power returns, and the dim auxiliary lighting in the room is replaced with sharp illumination. The communications wall of the lounge flickers back to life, information tailored to my interests displayed across its surface. Yes.
In the kitchen I command the Tea-lady on and hurry back to the wall with a steaming cup of kahwah. A calming blend of saffron, cinnamon, and cardamom fills the air.
An alert pops up: I’ve not paid my monthly Explorers Fund installment. I bring up my bank balance, pulling a face as I check it. I wave the alert away and skim each message as I dress Jojo.
The Landrovers are up to their usual scams and are “this close to discovering legendary dry land,” if only they have my “regular financial support.” I scowl. Yes, quick as you can, five hundred pounds and Bob’s your uncle: dry land.
Firstly, there’s no dry land up there—only a few mountain peaks. Secondly, discovering dry land wouldn’t even begin to solve my problem.
There’s another alert from the authorities demanding I end the constant petitioning and complaints regarding Papa’s arrest. Not bloody likely.
I shake my head and throw my hands up as I reach the end of the morning’s post. There’s no message from the solicitor.
“Jeeves?” I call out to activate the Housekeeper.
“Good morning, Miss Leyla. How may I assist you today?” The voice coming from my far wall never changes, as people find it familiar and reassuring.
“Jeeves, a file was playing this morning when the power went out. Is it possible to replay it?”
Jojo’s already trying everything she can think of to shed her festive outfit.
“I am sorry, Miss Leyla, but the power cut destroyed the file. Anything else I can help you with?”
I’ll never get to watch the whole thing now. I swallow past the disappointment. “What caused the power failure? I want to pay some Christmas visits—the twins and Grandpa. Has the power cut affected my routes?”
Jojo gives a triumphant yelp as her festive hat rolls off her head. She catches me glaring and scampers.
“Miss Leyla, the power cut was due to an incident in Marylebone. Although authorities initially suspected foul play, emergency services now report an earthquake as the cause. Your intended journeys are not affected by the subsequent travel restrictions. Would you like me to order you a cab?”
Foul play. I gulp. The Anthropoids can go back to whichever hell they came from.
They’re genetically modified humans. They were designed by desperate Old World scientists to breathe freely underwater, bear massive pressures, and possess great strength—all so they could help the survivors after the disaster when machines wouldn’t be enough. But instead they developed heightened levels of rage and loathing, bloodthirst and barbarity. And they turned on us.
Their sole aim is to destroy. They’re incredibly sly. In the water a genetically designed transformation takes place. The layer of skin acting as gills is an undetectable permeable design—making them even more dangerous to us. They’ve proven a truly terrifying mistake that humans have been paying for ever since.
Only last year one of them seized the opportunity to take innocent lives when a submersible caught in an earthquake hit trouble. Instead of aiding the family of four, a Newsbot caught the Anthropoid using specialized tools to cause vehicular damage. Within moments the sub’s body had been pierced, and by all accounts the family inside succumbed to the pressure before the water had even filled the vessel.
If it weren’t for Prime Minister Gladstone’s relentless efforts to find and stop the Anthropoids, many more lives would be lost to the deadly creatures. As if the natural environment isn’t enough of a threat already every time we’re out there.
“No need for a cab, Jeeves, I have Tabby’s sub. Have you run today’s search of Papa’s files? I submitted what you’ll be looking out for.”
“I have indeed, and nothing to report, Miss Leyla. Anything else?”
I sigh. “Keep running the daily scans, please.”
There has to be something in them that can help prove Papa’s innocence—even though the connections I ask Jeeves to look out for have become increasingly vague. It’s been three whole months since Papa’s arrest, and I’ve found nothing to shed any light on the vile accusations against him.
I pass by a now stark naked and contented Jojo. “Oi, you muppet. I’ll have to dress you on the way there now. Try and be good today, Jojo!” The puppy hangs her head, before jumping into the hammock Papa made for her and swinging away. “Oh no you don’t, you lazy sod. We’re headed out to the twins’ in a minute.”
Not many people own real pets. They’re as expensive as antiques. I’m incredibly lucky. Jojo was a gift from someone Papa helped a couple of years ago when their substandard property started showing signs of pressure damage. Papa lent them what little money we had, for a deposit toward a safer dwelling. It’s one thing replacing a virtual pet—that’s heartbreaking enough. Losing a real one’s unimaginable.