CHAPTER THIRTY
WHAT WOULD MENDELBLATT DO?
WILLIAM COLE LINGERED in the doorway of the Tereshkova’s infirmary, watching the woman in the bed. She hadn’t seen him yet. Her eyes were resting, and her auburn hair tumbled across the pillow like copper filigree. Her left arm and right ankle had both been plastered, and now hung suspended from a traction rig. Beneath the covers, her chest rose and fell, and its gentle rhythm brought tears to his eyes. As long as he could see it, he knew she lived.
Was there a word, he wondered, for what he felt? He’d never been so happy or so terrified; never felt so vulnerable or powerless. Over the past two days, he’d had his dead wife returned to him, and then almost lost her again. He’d become a husband and father on the brink of Armageddon, allowed only a fleeting moment of ephemeral happiness before the world fell apart.
It all seemed so damn unfair.
He thought of the old saying, that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Whoever came up with that had been an idiot. Two days ago, William would have probably welcomed the coming catastrophe, welcomed an end to loneliness and grief, and have quite happily thrown himself off the end of Portishead pier, into the sea with heavy rocks in his pockets, in order to escape the coming plague. But, as things stood now, he suddenly had something worth protecting, something worth living for. He had a family: two people he loved more dearly than he loved life itself, and no way to shield them from the coming horrors. He’d always known fate could play tricks, but he’d never expected it to be downright cruel. Losing his wife and daughter once nearly killed him. To lose them twice would be surely more than any man could be expected to bear.
Above the bed was a porthole, with blue November sky beyond. Leaning against the doorframe, he found himself remembering bright autumn days from his childhood: the front lawn of his parent’s house in Dayton; his father sorting Christmas lights in the garage, or tinkering with the petrol mower; his mother upstairs, running her stock trading business on a laptop in the spare bedroom, making video calls to New York, Tokyo and London. He remembered playing with the other kids in the neighbourhood; the sandpaper roughness of his father’s cheek, and the smell of oil and old cologne on his shirt; the clatter of his mother’s heels on the parquet floor; and the aroma of meatloaf from the kitchen.
Where, he wondered, had all that gone, and how could he have let something so precious slip away from him? That had been his family, his support, and his home. Right now, he’d give anything to hear his father’s voice, to lose himself in one of the old man’s bear hugs; but his father was dead, and his mother in a nursing home in Dayton, her mind already lost to the twisting confusions of advanced senility. However much he longed to go back, he never could, and never would. He wasn’t a child any more. He was a father himself, with a teenage daughter of his own, whom he’d only known for a few brief moments, and to whom he couldn’t offer anything like the stability or security shown to him by his own father.
The thought brought an irrational stab of shame, as if he’d failed in a sacred duty—failed Lila, Marie, and himself.
His cheeks burned, and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. They fidgeted like spiders, moving from beard to pockets, and back again.
When he opened his eyes, he found Marie watching him from the bed.
“William, what’s the matter? Is Lila—?”
“Lila’s fine.” He swallowed hard, and brushed his hair flat with his left hand.
“You saw her?”
“We talked.”
“And?”
He cleared his throat, wiped a hand across his eyes.
“She’s incredible.”
Marie smiled. “Yes, she is, isn’t she?”
He walked over to the bed and stood uncertainly. Should he pat her shoulder, or bend down and kiss her cheek? After a moment’s dithering, he settled for taking her hand.
“She wants to fight,” he said.
“So do I.” Marie looked at her suspended arm and leg. “But I can’t.”
“Shouldn’t we try to stop her?”
Marie shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. This is her choice.”
“But, aren’t you worried she might be killed?”
Her eyes widened in anger. “Of course I’m worried. But look what we’re up against. If we lose, that’ll be it, game over for good, and it won’t matter whether she was on the front lines or back here hiding under your bed.” She kicked at the covers with her good leg. “Personally, I’d rather see her dead than become one of them.”
William was aghast.
“How can you even say that?”
“Because I’ve seen what happens, okay? I’ve seen what they do to people. Men, women and children turned into drones, all traces of individuality banished by the machines in their heads.” She took a breath. “And so has Lila. She’s seen it all, and she knows exactly what we’re up against. She knows the odds and she knows the stakes, and if she wants to fight, there’s nothing you or I can do to stop her.”
“But the danger—”
“Danger’s relative. Sometimes it’s more dangerous to do nothing.” Frustrated, she tugged at the wires holding her damaged limbs in position. “And if it weren’t for these, I’d be right out there with her.”
“What about me?”
“If you want to help her, go with her.”
“What good would I be?”
Marie looked up at him.
“The Bill Cole I knew was a guerrilla fighter. What kind of man are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t you think it’s time you found out?” “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Of course you would. Seriously, William, don’t you remember your dreams, the ones you wrote down as stories? They weren’t dreams, they were memories. I don’t know how or why, but you’ve always been close to your alternate selves.”
“No, I don’t think—”
She slapped her palm against the covers.
“What was the name of that detective in your books?”
“Lincoln Mendelblatt.”
“Well, he’s you. Or at least, he’s a version of you. When you’re writing all that stuff about him, you’re really writing about yourself.”
William turned away from the bed. He could feel his cheeks going red.
“Bullshit.”
Marie caught his hand, and squeezed.
“It’s time to ask yourself,” she said, “what would Mendelblatt do?”