Story opening: The Memory Station

 

The smell of the underground is distinctive: the potent whiff of earthy engine fumes, car exhaust, the damp stench of gutters, putrid sewage and the occasional whiff of body odour. The atmosphere condensed, stifling. I can’t remember the surface but sometimes things come back to me through sights, smells and sounds. Sometimes the faces of the inmates remind me of people I can’t remember. Maybe one day they’ll release me but for now, I pry my mind for memories, what it was like, who I am, how I got here. I write them down in a spiderweb that I hide in the gap of a train seat. 

Seemingly, only useless things push themselves to the forefront of my mind. When I first saw the rail carriage an automated voice rang in my head “please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”  Yet if I let my mind wander things become clearer, pieces of information feed into one another, making this clouded picture less hazy.

I can still feel the presence of the past in the station walls. When we sleep on the carriage’s seats I trace the blackened patterns on its fabric. I imagine the human traffic all squeezed into a pumping artery. Each vein is linked to a different spot. Each commuter’s face is different and unfamiliar, sharing a united expression of repressed frustration and discomfort. Amongst the discordant chorus of mumbling is the raspy voice of a busker, desperately strumming to be heard over the ruckus of conversation, bouncing off the walls of the sloped chamber. Each commuter is fast and nimble on their feet, oblivious to the rest of the world, focusing on one thing. A buzzing swarm of fast-moving bodies.

The metal doors slide open and we rush to push our way through the crowds. We battle the limbs of other disgruntled commuters. A fish in a school swimming from one destination to another whenever we please. I picture the tube map, sharp vibrant lines weaving into one another in a Mondrian-Esque sprawl.

 The concept is so alien to me now I can’t tell if these memories are real or just imaginary. It is so quiet here. These machines made for moving now stand still.

Wherever we go the faceless Nannies watch us, their metallic bodies like a shell of armour, tasers hidden in their cold fingertips. If anyone talks or acts out of line the nannies taser us, their programming detects even the slightest movement from your lips. But we find other ways to communicate. 

One night, the inmate in the carriage next to me started tapping on the window. The first night I ignored it, squeezed my eyes shut in slight annoyance and fell asleep. But the second night they did it again and this time I remembered something. I pulled out my notebook and listened closely, squiggling dots and dashes. It was all coming back to me now. I got a few letters wrong at first but I kept jiggling the letters around until it resembled some coherency. It was a simple hello in morse code. A surge of overwhelming joy brought tears to my eyes. I could communicate and the Nannies had no idea. From then on we sent messages by tapping on the glass that divided us. I learnt that they had the same problems. Like me, they couldn’t remember their name, they didn’t know why they were here. We exchanged thoughts, fragments of memory, pieces of knowledge. 

Sometimes I wish I could cut the words out in little pieces and spread them out, joining them with tiny pins and pieces of red ribbon or string. As I rest on this thought, images in black and white come to mind of men in strange hats, cigars between their teeth, knocking on doors and asking questions, their eyes keenly examining their surroundings. Discovering, interrogating, speculating. I spell this out to my friend behind the carriage door: detectives.

We are always awoken by the Nannie’s wailing siren, this terrible mechanical screech that makes your ears ring.

Whether it's morning or night is unclear, time all blends into a cycle of sleeping and waking. I remember the sun. I miss the light. Grass between my toes, the warmth on my skin, children laughing, picnics in the park. Wicker baskets filled with sandwiches with the crusts cut off, the sweet tang of homemade lemonade. I could see a ghost of a face here just within reach, someone who was happy. So happy it irritates me. Their features distort in my mind and the more I concentrate, their face fades but I could hear their laugh, almost hysterical, almost screaming. It morphs until it's an agonizing wail, a screech that blends into the Nannie’s siren. I am awake.

Now and then we’re taken into a room, an austere concrete box, the walls so thick I feel as though they could start slowing shifting at any moment, closing like heavy metal doors. We sit on uncomfortable fold-out chairs which dig into our spines. I try to crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of someone’s face, I want someone to meet my eyes, I want contact, a nod, a movement of the brow, anything. Just a simple signal of human solidarity. The Nannies roll out this retro television on wheels, something you’d see in a classroom where you’d watch terrible grainy documentaries about earthquakes or tsunamis or long-dead philosophers and monarchs and try not to drift asleep. The nannies then fix a headband to our heads in which tiny clasps dig into different parts of your scalp. A man in a suit appears on the screen, his voice tinny over the old speaker.

“Hello inmates, you are about to watch a series of educational videos, some scenes you may find disturbing, some less so. We are hopeful this process will instill a positive frame of reference in this rehabilitation scheme to aid you in the reintroduction of wider society. Within this guided process you may feel a sensation from your headbands but do not be alarmed, you will not be in any danger, this is just part of the programme. Enjoy.”

The fluorescent light in the room slowly dims until it is pitch black. It is completely silent except for the sound of mechanical whirs and metallic jangles as the Nannies strap each inmate's wrists and ankles to the chair. The television hisses with white noise for a moment before images flash on the screen of a man beating a woman with a metallic rod. Something about it seems strangely comical to me. I have to purse my lips to refrain from laughing. And then an awful electric pulse radiates through my scalp and it feels as though my eyeballs are burning. Some of the inmates cry in agony, and some rattle the chairs in an attempt to escape. The Nannies simply taser them until they stop resisting. I clench my jaw and fight through the pain. 

And then I see flashes of that face again in my mind’s eye, clearer now, her features made sense. I tried to cling on to them but the more I try the more it fades. Martha? Marianne? Marianne. Her eyes are tearful but she’s laughing. Was she laughing? “What are you doing?” She asks. Her voice is soft, a sweet dulcet tone. “Nothing” I hear myself reply. But I was doing something. I can’t remember what I was doing.

The TV flicks again to people laughing, smiling, hugging. The shock from the headbands stops and a warm sensation emanates into my temples. This cycle continues, the TV flicks between scenes of violence which gradually become more bloodied and horrific, people being murdered, strangled, matched with agonising electrocution to scenes of love as warmth seeps from the headbands. I don’t know how long it lasts, there is nothing to measure the duration of this barbaric ordeal but it feels like forever. We leave the room in single file, we walk as if the ground is unsteady.

It rained outside, the smell of damp earth seeped through my bedroom window. The walls of my bedroom felt claustrophobic but safe, like huge blankets. I was engrossed in something. I tapped the yellowed keys on my computer, my eyes scanned each pixelated word that appeared on my screen. I looked for something. I had a question. My mother creaked the door open as if she was anxious to enter. “Do you have any dirty laundry?” her voice was croaky and tired, not pleasant and sweet like Marrianne’s, it was worn with age, like an old violin. I scooped up a bundle of worn clothes and threw it at her face. I pushed the door shut again, abruptly, with my foot. I heard a disgruntled sigh from the other side of the door. And then a sniff. Was she crying?

She started to wail, to screech, it was almost mechanical. No, it was mechanical. The Nannies were wailing again.