My Bracelet flashes: Gramps! I transfer the call to the far wall, and Grandpa’s face fills the space. Jojo wags her tail at the sight of him and he chuckles, his light-green eyes almost disappearing between the heavy bags beneath and the bushy gray eyebrows shading them.
I move closer. “Salaam, Gramps! Everything all right?” I narrow my eyes. “You look paler than usual.”
“Shalom, child. And nonsense, I feel as fit as a fiddle!”
Grandpa moves back from his own communications wall so I can see him in his study. He lifts his cane and performs a brief and woeful jig meant to pacify me but succeeds only in worrying me further. I stare at his beloved, weathered face. Within a fortnight of Papa’s arrest, Grandpa suffered a heart attack and still hasn’t fully recovered.
“As long as you’re eating properly, Gramps. Any drip-dry cupboards when I’m over this evening and you’ll be in serious bother.”
“That’s why I called, Queenie.” Grandpa drags a chair over and sits in front of the screen. He lowers his gaze. “The son of a good friend has stopped by, and I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy today. Could we meet up after he’s gone?”
“Oh, I see. . . . All right, but you must enjoy the day, Gramps, whatever you do.”
“I promise to. I’m sorry, child. I shall miss you, of course. You’ll still be busy, I hope?”
“Oh yes. Headed for the twins’ as soon as we’re ready.”
“Good, good.” Grandpa’s expression grows serious now, concern etched into his face. He smooths the gray-white jumble of hair on top of his head. “Remember, you promised you would stay alert out there.” He’s trying to keep his tone light, but his eyes cloud over. “You haven’t noticed anything else untoward, have you?”
On several occasions over the past few weeks I’ve had this feeling I’m being followed. Each time, I seem to catch the glimmer of a vessel’s lights just before they’re dimmed. Voicing my suspicions to Gramps was a bad idea, though. He rip-currented me by insisting I need someone to watch over me.
I most definitely do not.
“I told you, I can look after myself, Gramps. Please don’t worry. But . . . if I am being followed around, do you think it could be related to . . . you know—to Papa?”
Grandpa’s traumatized by Papa’s arrest. I can’t risk upsetting him by talking about it, and yet that day is the only thing I can think of whenever we chat.
None of it makes any sense. Grandpa was with Papa at the time; they’re both astronomers and worked together at the Bloomsbury laboratories. Police stormed the building and took Papa away. Despite Grandpa’s frail health, he’s worked tirelessly since, desperately trying to get some answers as to exactly which prison Papa’s being held in and how they can accuse him of such a terrible crime without a single shred of evidence. Why is the case “too sensitive to allow family and friends contact with him”? No, none of it makes any bloody sense at all.
Grandpa shifts around in the chair. “Anything is possible, child,” he says, his voice low. “If you do suspect someone is on your tail, head straight to a safe place. Please. You’re a smart scone, Queenie. You must remain careful.” He straightens, his gaze flitting around the room behind me. “I wish you would have a rethink about moving in with me, child. It would only be until your papa was back. But you shouldn’t be—”
“You know I love you, Gramps. But I can’t move in with anyone.” I wring my hands. “I’m really sorry. But it would just feel like I’m giving up on Papa. He’s going to return any day now, inshallah. In fact I’m waiting on a solicitor’s reply right this minute.”
Thank goodness I’m sixteen and have a choice. A month younger at the time of the arrest and I’d have been declared a ward of the state unless I moved in with friends or family. I need to stay focused on helping Papa, be here for when he returns.
Grandpa turns to the side, distracted. I think his visitor has entered the room. “I have to go now, Queenie. You must pop around soon as I’m free. Enjoy yourself at the Campbells’ and give that scallywag Jojo a big hug from me.”
I bite back my disappointment; another exchange that hasn’t revealed anything new about Papa’s situation. “Will do, Gramps. See you soon.”
The room is small anyway, but sometimes, like now, the walls really close in. I unfold a large canvas screen beside the album wall. Hanging inside the screen are all my cherished hand-drawn maps from over the years, Papa always budgeting to buy me the paper. They’re of all the waters around Great Britain.
I trace a little note pinned to one of the maps. I fished it out of Papa’s bin when I searched his room, looking for answers after the arrest. It’s just a work memo containing a few everyday reminders for himself and coordinates for Cambridge—Papa traveled all over for his work—but it’s handwritten, and seeing Papa’s handwriting comforts me. Besides, the authorities took most of his belongings and I’m not throwing away what’s left.
Movement on my wall catches my eye as an avatar pops up in the corner with a company logo: Dickens & Sons, Purveyors of Legal Advice & Services. The solicitors—finally!
I wave the message open. “Play.”
“Miss McQueen. Thank you for your enquiry regarding legal representation for Hashem McQueen. Unfortunately, we are unable to take on your father’s case. We advise you to continue with your search for suitable representation. In this ongoing climate, where our numbers continue to drop and our very survival is at risk, the charges of exploiting the seasickness by aiding and abetting citizen suicides are indeed grave. Good luck, and good day to you.”
What . . . ? No way. No. I shake my head. “Reply.”
I fold my arms and glare at the wall. “Mr. Dickens, my papa is innocent. The police have made a terrible mistake. He never encouraged seasickness sufferers to take their own lives. He helped them wherever he could. There’s absolutely no evidence to back the accusations up—surely that counts for something? Please reconsider. You were my last hope. Whereabouts in London is my papa? Why won’t they let me visit him? Nobody’s arrested and then never heard from again. Please, help us.”
He never came home, I want to add. One day three months ago he went to work as usual but never returned. What’s going on? I swallow past the hard lump in my throat. My chest is suddenly constricted, my ribs like prison bars. I gulp for air. “Send.” The message disappears.
The grid of information on the communications wall dissolves. “Rule, Britannia” plays as the wall displays a picture of the Great Briton of the Day. The solemn voice begins:
“Today’s minute’s silence is in honor of the venerable William the Conqueror, who among other achievements compiled the Domesday Book. Inside its pages, time has been preserved forev—”
Oh, not now. “Sleep, Desktop.”
I rub my arms and then wrap them around me, staring into nothing. It’s true that the seasickness takes many lives. It’s a horrific disease the waters brought with them. It comes on slowly; you have to watch out for the signs. First, people stop talking about the future. It doesn’t seem to offer them anything anymore. Some will gladly go hungry just so they can spend the money buying Old World relics instead. Many start obsessively following the Explorers’ progress and can’t accept that an exact date for returning to the surface isn’t yet available. And then there’s the sadness that swallows sufferers whole. That’s when some take their own lives.