Day 211

Writing – a dystopian world

…

On the other side, there was another door, but before we went through it, I was ‘decontaminated,’ which meant being sprayed with a gas of some sort.  It didn’t have a bad smell.

Then another invisible door, or archway, opened, and beyond, it was a large open space with blue skies, trees, flowers, what was once parkland, because we had something similar in what was called a ‘public space’, but on a smaller scale.  Life, such as before me, was still not possible on the outside, but it was improving.

Or so we were told.

It was a world within a world.  It was warm, there were creatures, and people tended it.

“It’s a pity we have to die before we get to see what we once had,” I said.  She had slowed down to match my movement.

She was what we called a power walker.

“There is much to explore over the coming week.”

It was large and a long walk. There was a lake, and there were small row boats.  The only rowing I’d done was in a gym.  Perhaps I’d get a chance to go on a boat.

We walked for half an hour.  We reached a row of bungalows built along the water’s edge.  At the third bungalow, she said, “This will be your residence for the next week.”

She led the way.  As we approached the door, it opened.  She went in, and I followed.  It was far better than anything I’d lived in my whole life, the sort of place we speculated management lived in.

“You have everything you need for the next week.”

“Am I free to explore that world outside my door?”

“With me, yes.  I will be staying here with you.”

Interesting.  “And interaction with any others who are staying here.”

“Of course.  This is not a prison. But as I said, I will be with you.”

It was beginning to feel like it was a prison.

She sat down at the table.  “Please join me, and we’ll go over the rules.”

Was I disappointed?  No.  I could think of worse ways to live the last week of my life.  It was just so unexpected that places like this existed, and my last week would be an endless reminder of what I had, in more ways than one.

About ten minutes into what seemed to be a well-rehearsed speech, I made a discovery.  Well, it was not so much a discovery as it was confirmation of a theory I once had.

About a year before, I was given a case that involved a missing woman who had not turned up for work that morning.  Normally, people had to be missing several days before we investigated, but I got the impression she was important.

And a surprise because crimes involving people were far and few between, and anyone committing crimes that killed or seriously injured others and was found guilty was summarily terminated.

In a small community, it was an effective deterrent.

And being such an important case, I was surprised my superior dropped the file on my desk with the warning, discretion was paramount, that I was to report results to him directly and only him, and if anyone came to me for information, I was to direct them to him.

It was an odd case, one where I should have got a similar story from everyone, especially in her block where she lived, but no two stories were the same.  Similar, perhaps, but always a key detail amiss.

Only one of the thirty-odd people I spoke to had a completely different story.  He had been missing the week she arrived, and when he came back, he discovered her living next door.

And when he tried to talk to her, she simply ignored him.  Another strange thing was that she had a visitor who turned up late at night, and they would leave together, return in the early hours, and the visitor left before anyone else in the block woke.

And then, that very morning, neither returned.

When I asked why he didn’t report the events, he, like many others, said they didn’t want to get involved.  I knew he knew more than he was telling me, but I also recognised fear.

I took my findings to my superior, and he told me it was imperative that I find her as soon as possible.  He didn’t say why.

But I knew what it was he wasn’t saying.

A lot of my job involved discretion; one of only a few who were privy to information that was restricted.  Yes, we had security levels, and due to seniority and my ability to keep secrets, I’d advanced to the highest level.

It was a privilege and also a curse.

It was where I discovered the people above my pay grade had a different life and privileges, which most people, if they knew, would be surprised.  It was, someone once said, a case of don’t do as I do, do as I say.

Very apt.

It led me to the conclusion that she was having an illicit relationship with a man she worked with.  I could go to her workplace to ask embarrassing questions, but instead visited the more exclusive hotels where illicit relationships played out.

There were seven I knew about, one near the block where she lived. I went there first, and when I told them who I was and what I was doing there, I was taken to the manager’s office, and then to a room where, very carefully laid out, the body of the missing woman.

They had known someone would come for her, and that it was better they did not report it via the usual means.

There were no visible signs of violence, so no harm had been inflicted on her.  I asked who had booked the room and received a blank stare.  No names were ever used, and there was no CCTV footage.

In certain circumstances, of which this was one.  It told me that management was, or could be, involved.

I dismissed the manager and made a cursory inspection of the room and the body.  Fully dressed, she looked as though she were asleep.  It was not my job to determine the cause of death, but the skin under my fingers when determining if there was a pulse was odd.

She was perfect in every way, not exactly the norm.

Examination completed, I reported back and was told to leave, my job done.  As I went through the foyer, I could see that someone had spoken to the manager; he looked a deathly shade of white.

I remained at a cafe not far from the hotel to see what happened next, and within ten minutes, two black cars and a van arrived, men in black uniforms from the cars, and men in white suits from the van.

Ten more minutes, and they were gone. I didn’t see the body being removed.

Nothing more was said, but seeing Miranda in front of me, now, she had all the same characteristics.

Wise or not, I had to ask, “Are you self-aware?”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025