Vessels of Existence Read online

The piece was obviously a bug. I couldn’t feature it. There’s something else, too. The actress’ maid has told them everything. How do you suggest we sort this out, princess?” Lawrence’s snappy, sharp voice rang through my GoTo into my ear. I flinched at his news. This wasn’t good.

  “Give the pair an offer they can’t refuse. We’ll delete the recording and give them a generous settlement if she doesn’t sue. If she does, the piece might be hacked and transmitted with the news at five tomorrow anyway.” I tinkle laughter confidently. It usually works with Lawrence, a sleazy soft touch with more money than he knows what to do with.

  “Do you realise how fast news travels? You’re far too late. She’s already booked her lawyer. There’s no backing out now, we’re set to lose billions. Once they start delving, they’ll find all of our bugs. You set up almost ninety percent of them all, and I’m sorry, princess, but we’ll have to let you go.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, and anger bubbles inside of me.

  “How can you fire me when I’m the only thing that’s kept people tuning into the news at five for all this time? News is free to listen to now and yet people still pay to subscribe to the news at five. Why? Because I have the latest gossip that no one else would even dream of trying to get.” I click for one of my maids to come over and request a bottle of whisky, not caring if Lawrence hears or not.

  “Oh, that’s right. Go straight to the bottle. Perhaps if you spent less time drinking and more time finding legal juicy gossip, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. You try to find the lazy way out every time instead of putting the effort in. Your final pay is being transferred to you as we speak. Goodbye, Lydia.” His smug voice cuts off and after a short beep, I know I’m alone in my head. The maid returns with my bottle of honey coloured drink, and I swig some before shooing her away to sulk in peace. I send a TT to my friend Clark about what’s just happened. He’s a high up politician who has an extensive knowledge of the ever changing laws, and I wait for a response, hoping the whisky hits me first.

  5

  Back in my cell, I’m amazed how clearly the memories flood through once I know my name. The name links to a million different scenes of being a child and teenager, having days out with my well-to-do family and friends. Friends that seem to fade out from my life the older I get. I wonder why that is.

  “My name’s Lydia.” I breathe in the direction of Obby. He gasps.

  “Wow... Y-you remember that? The drugs mustn’t be working too well in your system. As with any drug, it must be less effective with some people and highly effective on others.” It sounds like he’s quoting what he’s heard someone else describe.

  “But what use is it? It’s not going to get me out of here, is it? I still don’t know why I’m here.” I say, exasperated.

  He seems so positive about my memory returning but he doesn’t seem to realise it’s utterly pointless unless I happened to see a map of the building before they captured me and that doesn’t seem very likely. A while later, after counting how many cracks there are in the cement walls, a disgustingly thin woman comes round with a trolley of food. She cackles manic laughter as she gives me a plate of food, sliding it under the door of bars. If I was as thin as her I could easily slide under the bars. Her eyes seem to be loose in their sockets, rolling all over the place crazily and never focusing on one thing for too long. I’m glad when she leaves, and I wolf down the toast like it’s a gourmet meal. Immediately after I feel woozy, and drag myself to the table-bed to have some sleep.

  Waking up I have the disorientating feeling of not knowing whether it’s day or night. My head’s fuzzy again and I suspect there was more drugs in the toast and beans but now I’m expecting it I can deal with it better. The bed isn’t particularly comfortable but I allow myself to lie there longer than I would like to before I crawl to the barred door to talk to Obby.

  “Obby?” I cautiously try his name, hoping none of them are around. Obby makes me feel safer, like I’m not alone. He helps my mind relax, and I think he might be helping my memories come back somehow.

  “Lydia.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes me smile too, cracking my dry lips and causing them to bleed. I lick it away and clear my throat. The way he says my name unlocks more memories.

  6

  Without a job, I have no money. My apartment is very expensive. I live below a famous singer, and we often meet up for drinks to complain about the media. He always gets too drunk and has never realised that I am the media. That the stories he sloshes out after a few vodkas always end up in the news at five the next day. I don’t mind betraying his trust when I’m paid so much. I’m forced to move out of my apartment and with no other news stations willing to hire a known mole, it’s not just a smaller flat I’m forced to live in. I have to move into a different sector. The rich sector I currently reside in is the same one I’ve lived in all my life, because it’s safe and houses the right kind of people I want to be friends with. The other sectors have litter, no security, poverty and crime. I’ve never even been to the lower sectors but I find a dirt cheap house that costs just a tenth of my apartment’s monthly rent to buy.

  My new life is tough. I have a bed and a fireplace, one cupboard in the kitchen and a cupboard in the bedroom. The bathroom is filthy but water is expensive so I don’t bother to clean it. I barely even wash myself. A nearby factory has a minor explosion that kills thirty people and they are looking to hire more people. I don’t even hesitate when I go and ask for a job there.

  In my unfamiliar house I get ill easily from having no hygiene. My body thins, as my diet consists mainly of cabbage soup and bread and plenty of hard work at the factory. I get into a tedious routine, but at least it keeps me alive. I wake up when the sun rises. I prepare the cabbage for my soup and let it simmer in a cauldron of water while I go to work. I shift heavy bags of flour from one room to another all day long until my back aches like a rod of bamboo about to snap. I receive my measly wage for the day and buy more cabbage. When I arrive back at home, I eat the foul smelling soup and put myself to bed. It’s not an existence I would wish on anyone. There’s no time for fun like there used to be in my old life. People I work with go missing every so often. I only notice this because sometimes a doting husband or wife will wander into the factory in hysterics, looking for their spouse. Usually they disappear too, not long after. I don’t care what happens to them as long as I still keep my job and life.

  At work I’m given a sort of promotion to oversee a production room of clothing, to make sure the workers don’t slack or steal. In the room I make friends with a friendly, genuine guy called Thomas. He always welcomes me with a warm smile on a morning, even though I’m technically his supervisor. One day when our shifts end he asks if I’d like to go for a walk. Of course I accept, desperate for a hint of the social lifestyle I once had.

  6

  It’s been a few weeks now. I talk to Obby every day about possibilities of where we could be and of things I remember about the outside world. I’d give anything to be sipping whisky in my posh flat. Obby’s a nice man, always so patient and kind, even when I rant and rave about how crappy our situation is. He always explains things are meant to be, that everything happens for a reason. I don’t know whether to believe him; what reason could there ever be for this? In my time in this prison I’ve seen a few people, either sedated with their head lolling all over or fully aware and screaming until their lungs are fit to burst, being dragged along by them. I hope to god I never have to go along the corridor, because I’ve never seen anyone come back that way but I have heard the screams. They give me vividly horrific nightmares.

  7

  We walk together every day for a couple of weeks before we begin a relationship. His house is more of a rundown shed so he moves in with me. We talk about marriage and kids, wondering how we would bring them up on our wages and if it’s even possible. After a year together I get pregnant but at four months there are some complications and I wake up in the middle of the night to find my
entire lower body covered in blood. With no hospitals, Thomas and I have to deal with it ourselves. It’s a low time for us both.

  Just as we’re getting back into a comfortable routine, making sure our conversation always diverts around the subject of the children we just aren’t destined to have, Thomas disappears. Like all of those women who have screamed and fallen to their knees in the factory about their husbands, I break down and search for him in the sector. After a few weeks I know he isn’t coming back. He’s been snatched. I’ve been warned about the vessel snatchers, they strike at and then you’re never seen again. No one will explain where he has gone or why my life lies in ruined pieces on the floor. Running out of food I have to return to the factory, but they’ve already replaced my job so it’s back to shifting sacks of flour.

  8

  The days pass without much event. It’s the boredom that gets you the most. I sit and wish for death just so I won’t have to stare at the same three walls and sleep in the same hard bed that kills my back. This situation is not permanent, I know that much. I wonder when it’ll be my turn to be taken away. I feel sadness too, at knowing Thomas was taken like me. It’s not