tanks, were so all-consuming that there was no room left in my own mind for anything else, least of all myself.
Zach came to see me so rarely now – sometimes months passed between visits. When he did come, I could hardly speak to him. I noticed, though, how much his face had changed over my years in the Keeping Rooms. He was thinner, so his lips were now the only part of his face with any softness. I wondered if I’d changed too, and whether he would notice if I had.
‘You know it can’t go on like this,’ he said.
I nodded, but I felt as though I was underwater, his words muffled and distant. My cell’s cramped walls and low ceiling conspired to create echoes, doubling every noise so that any sounds were always just a little unsteady. Now the echo had started to feel like part of a broader blurring – everything was slipping out of focus.
‘If it were up to me,’ he went on, ‘I’d keep you here. But I’ve started something, and I need to finish it. I thought maybe I could keep you out of it, if you made yourself useful. But you won’t give her anything.’
He didn’t need to specify who ‘her’ was.
‘She won’t put up with it any longer.’ He spoke so low that I could barely hear him, as if he could hardly bear to hear his own admission of fear. He leaned forward so our faces were close. ‘If it were up to me, I’d keep you here,’ he said, louder now. I didn’t know why it mattered so much to him to convince me of this. I turned my head to the wall.
*
At first I didn’t know why the dreams of the empty tank terrified me so. I’d been seeing the tanks for three years now. They always sickened me, but they’d become familiar – my body no longer flinched in surprise when I saw them in a dream. I’d grown used to them, the same way I’d grown used to the brand on my own face. Why, then, when I dreamed of the empty tank, did I wake tangled in sheets wet with sudden-sprung sweat? The tank was empty – it should have been less horrifying than the occupied ones that normally plagued my nights. It just sat there, a glass belly waiting to be filled.
For the fourth night in a row, I dreamed of the same tank again. It sat in the same dull light; the wires and pipes clustered above it as they always had. The curve of the glass was the same, but something was acutely wrong. This time the glass curved not away from me, but around me. I could feel a tube in my own mouth, its rubbery intrusion into my windpipe, and the pain at the corner of my mouth where, protruding, the tube had eroded my skin. I couldn’t close my mouth, or keep out the liquid that now filled the tank, foully sweet. My eyes, too, couldn’t close. The viscous fluid blurred my vision, everything wavering and softened, as if seen through one of the heatwaves that hovered above the settlement’s fields on midsummer days.
When I woke, I screamed until my throat was gravelled and my voice couldn’t stick on any note, juddering and jerking between them. I screamed Zach’s name, until that single syllable took on strange shapes, became unrecognisable. In my first weeks in the Keeping Rooms I’d learned that screaming achieved nothing, brought nobody to the cell door, but I screamed nonetheless.
For six more nights I felt the tank fill around me, unable to move as the fluid took possession of my flesh, closing finally over my head, around the tubes that threaded into me at the throat and wrists. Each night, until I woke myself, screaming, I was suspended from the throat tube like a fish on a line.
I couldn’t eat. Each attempt to swallow reminded me of the tube down my throat, and I gagged and retched. I did what I could to avoid sleep, when the visions came most easily. At night, I paced the cell, counting footsteps until the numbers blurred. I took to pinching my arms and pulling hairs from my head, one at a time, trying to use the pain not just to keep myself awake, but to locate myself in my real body, and to keep at bay the tanked self of my dreams. Nothing worked. It was all unravelling: my body; my mind. Time itself was jumpy and fragmented now. Some days I slipped through hours like someone skidding, out of control, down a scree-slope. Other times I could have sworn that time stopped, and a single breath seemed to last a year. I thought of the mad seer at Haven market, and the mad Omega on the ramparts. This is how it happens, I thought. This is how my own mind deserts me.
In the end, I scratched a note into the meal tray with the edge of my blunted spoon. Zach: urgent – important vision. Will tell you (only you) in exchange for ten minutes outside, on the ramparts.
He sent The Confessor, as I’d known he would.
She sat in her usual chair, back to the door. The previous days must have left me looking ragged, but she made no comment on it. I wondered whether she even saw it, or whether her mental acuity meant she had no need for external observations. ‘Normally, you’re not so keen to share your visions. Quite the opposite. Which makes us curious, you see.’
‘If Zach’s so curious, send him. I won’t tell you.’
I’d known this would be the hardest part. I could feel The Confessor probing my mind, the way our mother used to pry open the shells of river-mussels, circling the seam, testing with the knife for the one weak spot from which to lever open the shell.
‘Closing your eyes won’t stop me, you know.’
I hadn’t even noticed I’d closed them until The Confessor spoke. I realised that my teeth, too, were clenched tight. I forced myself to look straight at her. ‘You’ll get nothing.’
‘Perhaps. Maybe you’re getting better at this. Or maybe there’s nothing there – no special vision, no helpful insight.’
‘Oh, so it’s a trap? What am I going to do? Shimmy down the walls on a rope made of bedsheets? Come on.’ I paused. It was hard to talk and brace my mind against The Confessor at the same time. ‘I just want to see the sky. If I’m going to tell you what I know, why shouldn’t I trade it for that?’
‘It’s not a trade if you’ve got nothing to offer us.’
‘It’s about the island,’ I blurted. I’d hoped not to give away even this much, but the terror of the tanks made me reckless.
‘I see. The island that you’ve insisted for the last four years doesn’t exist.’
I nodded, mute. While her expression didn’t change, I felt her mind, eager now, like the hands of an unwelcome suitor. I concentrated harder than ever, trying to open my mind without allowing her full access. I focused on giving away only a glimpse, just a fraction of a glimpse, enough to confirm the value of my visions without revealing anything that would be disastrous for the island, or for my own plans. I fixed my mind on a single image, the way a lone shaft of light would fall between the curtains of my kitchen at the settlement, illuminating only a fragment of the opposite wall. Just the town on the island, just one of its busy, steep streets. Close-up, no identifying features of the landscape. Just the town, its market-hub, the houses stacked on the rising ground. Just the town.
I heard The Confessor’s intake of breath.
‘Enough,’ I said. ‘Tell Zach what he has to do, and I’ll tell him everything.’
But it wasn’t enough. The probing continued, almost frenzied now. Once, at the settlement, I’d woken to find a raven had picked its way through a gap in the thatch and become trapped in my tiny bedroom, dashing from wall to wall in a cacophony of feathers until it found the open window. The Confessor’s presence in my head felt like that now: the same mixture of desperation and aggression.
I didn’t speak. Instead, for the first time, I tried to match The Confessor
