CHAPTER 4

I cross my fingers and stroke them with my thumbs, my body fizzing with cortisol as silver biofarm towers flash past. The train is crossing the rewilded zones: transgenic poplars, oaks and ash shooting up at twice the speed of their forefathers, soaking up more CO₂. Usually these woodlands spark a thrill of anticipation; their branches say: look, you are getting close now, you are nearly home. But today, their welcome is blemished, as if stricken by some fungal infestation newly transported from overseas.

I think of the DNA map, my profile nestling beside another’s: a fifty-percent match.

I have a sister.

My gut tightens. Just saying that word is dangerous, but there is no denying it. The chromosomes dictate she exists.

I moved the alert to a restricted access area, reserved for ‘delicate’ investigations, usually the preserve of the famous or the influential. Such behaviour goes against my instinct, the oaths I took:

Your first loyalty is to your Ministry…

I remember Minister Gauteng drilling us at our induction about how it was our duty to root out all misdemeanours, as she eyed us, one by one. Reminding us how privileged we were to serve our country.

Especially you…

She didn’t have to voice her disgust at my eyes. Her expression said it all.

I still don’t understand how this profile can only have appeared now. I must investigate and document my evidence. Show this is all some terrible mistake.

But the system doesn’t make mistakes…

The booming in my ears intensifies, as if my head is being squeezed in a vice. I tried all the usual searches: birth registry, medical and education records. All drew blanks. I can’t stop thinking about that family that concealed their second child. They managed to keep the daughter hidden until she was twelve. Some say they procured a duplicate ID on the black market. Others claim the girl and her sister lived a double life, pretending to be the same child. Whatever happened, the Ministry made an example of them. The parents’ sentence matched the daughter’s age: twelve years. No one knows what happened to her, though rumours abound.

If my parents are guilty, and the Ministry applies the same sentence, they will go to prison for a minimum of twenty-four years.

Water glitters in the distance: the Thunberg Reservoir. As we slow for a station, a Ministry hording slides into view.

The young girl sitting on her father’s shoulders has been obliterated by vandals; the appalling nickname for our Ministry scrawled underneath:

And an idea hits me so hard I break out in a sweat: maybe this profile is a test – of my loyalties. What are the chances of this case of a grown sibling, my illegal sibling, being allocated to me? Maybe, right this minute, the Ministry is watching, to see if I’m up to it: investigating my own parents. Prepared to issue a warrant for their arrest.

You should have reported it…

I stray back to the interminable questions, scrolling my past for clues. I grew up as an only child, like everyone else; I have no memory of any sister. My parents were loving and law-abiding: nothing like the families I’ve met who try to sneak past the rules. But then I remember Ciara Reilly’s mum and dad. They seemed pretty law-abiding, too.

Ciara was my first and only real friend. The only one who didn’t snigger behind her hand at me or call me names because, unlike them, I wasn’t perfected before birth.

Weird-Eye!

She had this dogeared book called My Naughty Little Sister that she’d unearthed from a box when her dad was clearing out her gran’s loft. It would most certainly have been banned, but we didn’t realise how dangerous it was at the time. We used to read it under her duvet, gasping and giggling away. Sometimes, we’d even pretend we were sisters: the thought of it now still stings. We made it a game, taking it in turns to be the younger or older one, playing pranks and bossing each other around.

Until another girl in our class reported us.

We were sent to the head. Given detention for a week, humiliated in front of the whole school.

We never played the game after that.

Then Ciara really did get a younger sister. I overheard Mum and Dad whispering about it.

I didn’t see Ciara or her family again.

I spend the rest of the journey rehearsing the questions I must ask, tormenting myself with imagined answers. By the time the train pulls into Oxford, I’m exhausted.

I take the tram from the station, past the weathered-stone colleges full of students beavering away on the latest farming initiatives and carbon-sequestration tech. As we rattle past the gates to the Covered Market, I have a flashback to those melt-in-your-mouth cookies Mum used to get me, when the kids at school had been particularly mean. The stone lion is waiting for me, jaws still gaping, clambering over the arch of an ancient door. Just one more thing that gave me nightmares, as if the newsreels they made us watch weren’t enough. No matter what time it was, Mum always came in to comfort me. She’d rock me in her arms, whispering reassurances, until I drifted back to sleep.

More memories rally, protesting my parents’ innocence, and I nearly miss my stop. I jump out by the Smart Mart and zigzag down side roads, each step growing heavier as I count:

Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen…

And there it is: the street where I grew up. I know exactly how many steps it is from here. My eyes stay glued to my feet; cracks dissect the pavement where weeds cluster. Only when I’m right outside, do I look up.

Wisteria curls under the faded-white sills; blue and pink pots have assembled by the door. The stone pig I chose at a summer fair grins at me by the fence.

I take three breaths. Raise my finger to the old-fashioned bell. It hovers there, uncertain. I haven’t told Mum I’m coming. It’s better that way.

Feet pad down the hallway. A quick, light step so familiar, it makes my chest ache.

Mum’s in her casual clothes: a sleeveless top and yoga pants, her hair scraped into a bun. She’s wearing the glass drop earrings I bought her for Christmas.

‘Kai, darling.’ A smile breaks out. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

She opens her arms wide, and I clutch her tight like I used to, when she could make everything better.

As I pull away, her eyes race over me. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. I was in the area, so thought I’d pop by.’

I kick off my shoes and scurry past; attempt to ground myself in the quartz units, the bleached wooden floor. But even décor can no longer be trusted.

‘Can I get you some tea?’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Or perhaps something stronger?’

She’s not fooled. Those eyes are like Ministry scanners: they can read me from the inside out.

‘I’ll stick with tea, thanks.’

‘I’ve a new Suffolk varietal I’ve been saving. I think you’ll like it.’

I drink in each detail as she flits around the kitchen: those slender fingers with pale-pink nails, that mole on her left wrist. The familiar tune she’s humming.

She reaches into a cupboard and sighs. ‘I assume this is about Grannie.’

I blink. And remember the overshoot.

‘Actually, no.’

‘Oh.’ She passes me a cup. ‘You seem awfully serious.’ She laughs but her notes are off.

‘Something happened today which doesn’t make sense… ’ My hands squeeze the cup. ‘I was wondering … Did you ever donate any of your eggs? Or … embryos?’

Her brow pinches. ‘A strange thing to ask … No, I didn’t. Why?’

It was my wild hope. The system would have flagged it. But I still had to try.

‘This morning, a new profile cropped up, on a family record… ’ I hesitate. ‘Our record.’

The furrow on her forehead deepens. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A genetic ID. For a woman, in her mid-twenties.’

Mum freezes.

‘I’m sorry, I have to ask … Is it possible, that you … That you might have had… ’ I scrape my tongue across my teeth.

‘Kai?’ Her tone hardens.

‘…a second child?’

She stares at me. ‘What is this?’

The rawness in her voice sinks me.

‘The profile, Mum. It’s a sibling match … For me.’

Her mouth sags. ‘No. No, that can’t be right … There must be some mistake.’

‘The system doesn’t make mistakes… ’ The words erupt before I can stop them.

Deep breaths. Distance. This is what we’ve been taught.

It’s not working. I lurch for her hand. ‘This is upsetting, I know. I’m just as confused as you are.’

‘You don’t seem very confused.’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything— ’

‘Aren’t you?’ Her hand slides away. ‘You turn up here with no warning, and start … interrogating me— ’

‘I’m trying to protect you!’ I sound like the five-year-old me, desperate and frightened. ‘Please, Mum, I … I just need to be sure. Is there anything you’re not telling me?’

‘What’s going on?’

I twist round: it’s Dad. I didn’t hear him come in.

‘Why the raised voices?’ He looks at Mum, then at me.

I swallow. ‘We have a problem.’

He frowns. ‘What kind of problem?’ He turns to Mum. ‘Sarah?’

Mum shakes her head.

Dad looks smaller, somehow; perhaps it’s the way his coat is hanging off him, as if it’s suddenly outgrown him.

‘I need to speak with your father for a minute. In private.’

I haven’t heard those words in years.

And, just like that, I know.