It’s odd to walk down streets I know so well and not recognise them. With each upturned car I pass, each broken window, my stride lengthens, my pace quickens.
I call Ellie again, but she’s not answering. This must be the fourth or fifth time I’ve tried to call since I found out they were allowing me home this morning.
Did something happen to her? Did she get caught up in the riots?
I didn’t even know about the riots until today.
When you’re cut off from the world you half expect it to pause for your benefit.
But I would never have imagined riots breaking out during that pause. Riots are things you read about in history books.
I’m still a mile from my home. I wish I’d been allowed to take my car to the training centre. I’d be home by now.
I’m worried.
I quickly scan the news on my phone again. It was something about immortality. When I first saw the story I didn’t fully take it in. I saw the word “immortality” and was incredulous.
WOCO haven’t confirmed or denied the story. We all have to wait for an announcement on TV tomorrow night.
I turn two more corners and I’m walking along my street. Thankfully, there are no signs of rioting here. It’s as peaceful as I left it. Trees line the road, leafless trees, but quiet.
*Ellie will be all right, *I tell myself.* She’ll be fine.*
But my heart ignores the reassurances I try to send its way.
I try and think about our future. Now I’ve moved up from a level five to a level four WOCO officer, we’ll be eligible for a bigger house. I hope she’ll be pleased with my promotion. Our two bedroom town house is fine, but we’ll need a bigger place for the furniture coming our way. I doubt one of the king size intelligent beds will fit in our bedroom.
She’ll enjoy moving. It’ll be fun.
I take my keys out and open the front door. I hesitate on the threshold before slowly inching forwards.
“Hello?” I call out tentatively.
There’s no answer, but I can hear garbled voices from a television show.
I walk into the lounge.
Ellie is sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, transfixed by the TV. That’s a relief.
“Hello,” I say.
“Oh.” Her eyes widen with surprise. “You’re back.” She really hadn’t seen or heard me. She stands up and walks over. I stretch out my arms and we hug.
It’s good to feel her warm body again.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says, her voice a little shaky. I cup her face in my hands. Her features are drawn, her skin pale.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She kisses me. It’s a desperate kiss, lips pressed hard against lips as if to check they’re solid, as if to check they’re real.
“Do you think it’s true?” she asks.
“Is what true?”
“The immortality procedure?”
I force a laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood, but her words don’t lose any of their urgency.
“Seriously, do you think it’s true?”
“I don’t know. I’ve no idea. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
But the darkness around her eyes tells another story.
“How are you feeling? You look a little off-colour. Have you been sleeping okay? Are you ill?”
“No.” She’s adamant.
It’s tempting to move to another room, to sit down, to close my eyes, to drift and find out for sure. But that’s the thing I mustn’t do. Mustn’t ever do.
She buries her head in my chest.
“Tell me,” I demand. “Is it trouble at work?” Ellie is a librarian at the university. Being a librarian sounds like a routine job, but she often jokes that cataloguing methodology can cause heated discussions. But work has never left her in this state. It can’t be work.
“No, I’m fine. Honestly, I’m fine. Tell me about the training course. Tell me all about it.”
“You know I’m not allowed to.”
She pauses, then nods reluctantly, my answer seeming to add to her sadness.
So what’s upset her? I haven’t seen her like this since her mother passed away. It was a few years ago that she died from cancer, shortly before they discovered a cure for most types of that heinous disease.
Is this why she’s upset?
Has this talk of immortality got Ellie thinking about relatives and friends she’s lost? People who could have been in her life forever if we’d all been born a few years later.
I give her another hug, but she soon breaks away and returns to watching the television show.
I watch it with her for a few minutes. It’s a studio discussion. Various experts have been ferried in to give their views, to speculate on the consequences of everybody becoming immortal.
Members of the studio audience fire off questions: *“If we were all immortal would that mean nobody ever retired?” “Would the same marathon runner always be world champion?” “How would I ever get my son to leave home?” “Could I eat burgers every day forever?” “What happens if I get run over by a bus?”*
The whole show seems surreal. I want to talk about it with Ellie, but when I glance at her, her eyes are filling up.
I get up. “I’m going to make some tea. Would you like a cup?”
She shakes her head.
I walk off into the kitchen.
A voice inside my head goads me: *sit down at the kitchen table, find out what’s troubling her. You can do it; you’ve been tuned. Go on.*
But that’s the thing I mustn’t do. Mustn’t ever do.
I shake my head to make the voice go away, but the thought remains. I could find out what she’s thinking. I could try.
Would it help? Or would it make the situation worse?
The kettle boils and I pour the hot water over the teabag in my cup.
I banish thoughts of reading Ellie. I knew I’d be tempted. And the temptation won’t end tonight. The temptation is sure to revisit me again and again and again. It’s human nature.
It could solve a lot of problems: knowing what your spouse is thinking. But I’m well aware of how it could cause a whole load more.
So I mustn’t give in. I value our marriage too much.
I must never try to read my wife’s mind.
Never.
I return to the lounge with my cup of tea.
