A duck dips its head beneath the surface of the pond, searching for food. Tiny bubbles rise as it forages underwater.

  ‘Do you remember that I struggle with talking, too, Lara- Jay? The Transfer part of me can’t speak. It’s frustrating and upsetting. I can’t imagine how difficult it is for you being entirely mute. But you’ll get there. I know you will.’

  The duck’s head resurfaces briefly before disappearing again. Ripples spread from the spot where the duck hunts, distorting the reflection of the trees on the water’s surface. They twist and warp, unsteady and ephemeral.

  We stand in silence for a while. Lara-Jay seems transfixed by the water, staring glassy-eyed at the reflections as they swell and shimmer. ‘I started humming yesterday,’ we tell them. ‘The Transfer part of me, I mean. It finally happened. I finally made a noise. Would you like to hear?’

  We hum quietly to a song Mitchell used to love. The words we haven’t retained, but the rhythm remains. It rolls smoothly, like the ripples on the pond. I think it was something about sailors. Something about being at sea. Lara-Jay keeps their eyes on the water. We’re certain they have no interest in our breakthrough, but when we stop they tap our arm, urging us to continue. We laugh, and our eyes sting again – not with dis­appointment this time, but relief. Lara-Jay does understand. They do hear us.

  ‘Why don’t you try, Lara-Jay? See if you can make any sound at all.’

  Their eyes shift, becoming fixed on the path.

  We’ve lost them. We were so close. What made them disap­pear? They heard, even enjoyed, our humming. Now, they’re choosing to block us out.

  A hot surge of anger flares through us. ‘Lara-Jay, I know you can hear me. It’s rude to ignore people.’ Our voice rises, sharp and cutting. ‘You’re being rude. Look at me.’

  To our surprise, they do.

  They move their head slowly, and their vacant gaze even­tually lands on us.

  We look into their eyes, properly, for the first time since their Merge. And finally, we see them. All of them. The panic in their stare.

  Lara. Trapped. Silenced.

  She stares with such intensity, such desperation, that we hear her unspoken words. We know what she wants. We know who she’s searching for. She always found such comfort in us.

  In me.

  In Laurie.

  And now she needs to see us, to know she’s okay, that she can do this, that she can exist happily inside her father. But I can’t tell her. I have no voice. How can she believe I’m here when I can’t tell her myself?

  We take Lara-Jay’s hand. Ours feels so small in theirs, so unable to provide the comfort we need it to. Go on, Mum. Do it.

  We close our eyes and hum gently, a low note that vibrates in our throat. We think of Lara, of how much she relied on us to get her through. We see her, in the rare moments she felt joy, her shy smile. She needs us. She needs me.

  Our humming gains momentum, and then morphs into something more.

  Something real.

  Our voice escapes effortlessly, as though it has a will of its own.

  ‘I’m here,’ we whisper. ‘It’s me. It’s Lor.’

  Then Lara-Jay is crying, and their tears become contagious. Neither of us makes a sound or breaks the gaze. We’re silent in our shared grief. We mourn together. Our bodies. Our auton­omy. Our selves.

  Lara-Jay grips our hands, their nails digging into our palms. Their tears fall faster.

  ‘Tell me,’ we whisper. ‘Please, Lara-Jay, let me help you.’

  ‘Lor?’

  We stare, taken aback by the sound of their voice, the apparent ease with which they’ve spoken. ‘Yes,’ we say. ‘It’s Lor. It’s me.’

  They touch our face, wiping away our tears. They attempt a smile, but it’s met with a shaky exhale. ‘You’re really in there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They close their eyes, their chin quivering.

  ‘What is it?’ we say again, together, united. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘She’s not here,’ they whisper. ‘Lara’s not here.’

  The gown we’ve been provided with is silk. It reminds us of the bridesmaid dress we wore to Mary’s wedding. We worried it was too revealing with its almost invisible straps, but Mary assured us it was perfect. ‘I designed it specially,’ she said. ‘It was made just for you.’

  Her wedding was held in a small, weathered church on the coast of Cornwall. Besides family, Mitchell and I were the only guests – two witnesses to the intimate ceremony. Afterwards, we gathered on the beach for the wedding breakfast, our toes sinking into the sand as we ate. As evening fell, we wrapped ourselves in thick blankets, watching the setting sun, sharing in Mary and Stuart’s happiness as the horizon sank into the sea.

  We wonder if Mary will have the same thoughts when she sees us. If the sight of us in this gown will take her back.

  Eliza styles our hair, singing softly as she brushes. We watch her in the mirror as she secures the bun with an elegant green hairpin. Two tendrils of hair have been left to frame our face in delicate curls. ‘What do you think?’ Eliza holds a small mirror behind us to show us the finished look. Our hair is twisted tightly into a neat ring. Below the bun is our tat­too. We run our finger over the mandala, following the gentle curve of the loose ‘s’ that splits the design, feeling the subtle rise of ink beneath our skin. We’d forgotten it was there.

  All those months we spent discussing what tattoo to get to mark my sixtieth. We couldn’t agree on anything. Perhaps we were destined to wait for this one. Now we have a tattoo that truly belongs to the both of us. I like it, don’t you? It’s prettier than I remembered, more delicate.

  ‘I love it,’ we say. ‘Thank you, Eliza.’ Even if we didn’t approve of her styling, we’d never admit it. We can’t argue against the traditional hairstyle for the Passing, not after Eliza spent so long ensuring the bun was exactly right, symmetrical and of even thickness. She puts the little mirror on the bed and squeezes our shoulders, her eyes meeting ours.

  She’ll be the one officiating today, leading the burial. A privilege, she keeps saying. An honour to be involved in the next stage of our journey.

  ‘Is Lara-Jay coming to my Passing?’ we ask. ‘Did you tell them how much I want to see them?’

  Eliza begins collecting up the hairpins and combs, putting them in a little purple pouch. ‘I did tell them how much their presence would mean to you, but I can’t promise anything. They haven’t been out since that walk to the pond.’ She picks up a can of hairspray and begins shaking it. ‘Close your eyes, Laurie-Amelia. And cover your mouth.’

  We think back to the last time we saw Lara-Jay. When they dropped to their knees and cried, their cheek pressed against the gravel, the stones imprinted on their skin. ‘I can’t hear her,’ they sobbed, tears wetting the stones. ‘Why can’t I hear her?’

  We crouched beside them, resting a hand on their cheek. Their face was hot despite the cold air. ‘What do you mean you can’t hear her?’

  Then Nathan and Eliza were pulling Lara-Jay to their feet, hoisting them up with their hands under their armpits. Lara-Jay rose like a mannequin being repositioned in a shop window. No struggle, no resistance. They closed their eyes, relinquish­ing all control. Eliza took charge, lifting their arm and draping it over her shoulders. ‘What do you mean you can’t hear her?’ we asked again. ‘Aren’t you having any head-talk?’

  Lara-Jay kept their eyes closed but shook their head.

  ‘None? Nothing at all?’

  ‘Enough, Laurie-Amelia,’ Nathan warned, his hand still under Lara-Jay’s arm. ‘You can see they’re distressed. Drop it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Enough!’

  We jumped. Nathan never raised his voice. Not even when we failed the tests.

  Eliza stroked Lara-Jay’s hand as she walked them slowly back to their apartment. She spoke soothingly the whole time, assuring Lara-Jay that everything was all right, that the head­talk would return, that this was nothing to worry about. ‘You spoke,’ she kept saying. ‘You found your voice, Lara-Jay. Let’s focus on that remarkable achievement.’

  As we walked home, we considered how strange it was that our voice had arrived along with Lara-Jay’s, how our first words formed just moments before theirs. We thought of their panicked eyes searching ours, of Lara trapped inside, desper­ately looking for someone who could see her.

  Since then, we’ve spent countless hours dissecting the rea­sons behind Lara’s silence, arguing over which theory seems most plausible: Is it the unresolved conflict between them? Or because Lara refused to fully engage in the sessions designed to bring them closer? Or is it something more sinister? Is Lara deliberately tormenting Jay, refusing to speak? Hiding within him, sulking, intent on driving him mad?

  Anxiety swells as we make our way to the church, growing like the dark clouds overhead. Nathan holds a large umbrella, the rain pattering on its canopy. We remain close to him, our gown bunched in our hands to keep it from spoiling on the wet gravel path. We tread carefully, not wanting to slip. We’ve no walking stick; Nathan insisted we left it behind.

  Combines and Support Workers offer smiles and congrat­ulations as we pass. Some bow their heads. ‘From what was,’ they say, ‘we emerge anew.’

  We nod our thanks, our voice faltering, our mouth dry. Nathan speaks for us, delivering the expected response. ‘Our past we honour, our future we embrace. In the Merge, we pro­tect our place.’

  The hymns have begun. Their tones, carried by the wind, wrap themselves around us, threatening to suffocate. We concentrate on our breathing, taking large gulps of air. A fish stranded on land.

  Combines spill out of the church, a sea of green suits and gowns. Anyone with hair long enough to be tied up sports the same bun. So many have turned up to watch us Pass. We knew they would. It was the same for Noah-Lucas and Lara- Jay. Everyone wants to witness the burial of the experimental Combines, to say they were there for this moment in history.

  The rain grows heavier. Umbrellas are raised, popping up like fireworks.

  We manage a smile as we pass through the gaggle of Combines loitering outside the church. Each one bows their head respectfully.

  The church, though built for The Village, has the appear­ance of a building centuries old, its rough weathered stone mottled with moss and lichen. Nathan folds the umbrella, shaking it vigorously to remove the wet. We tighten our grip on his arm. ‘You’re a pioneer, Laurie-Amelia,’ he says quietly. ‘You’re going to change the world.’

  We walk slowly down the aisle. Merged faces, half man, half woman, are carved on the end of each pew.

  I’ve never liked churches. Not since I was forced to attend one every Sunday as a little girl.

  At the altar, a sculpture of steel and stone depicts two figures locked in an eternal embrace. Behind them is a large stained-glass window. In the centre stands Our Combine, head raised, hands splayed wide. Encircling it are smaller panels displaying the mandala. There’s a pulpit and lit white candles, but no cross. How strange it seems to celebrate the Passing in a church, when the Christians were so vocal in their outrage. Their warnings were clear: life is a gift from God, not to be tampered with by mortal hands.

  The memory floods in.

  The chaos of the streets. The furious faces of the activists, their fists raised in defiance. We’re among them, shouting, fury in our hearts. The weight of the placard, held high above us. The fear – the terror – that we’d be ignored.

  The church comes back into focus. We’re halfway down the aisle, nearing the altar.

  The statue. The candles.

  It wasn’t just Christians who condemned the Merge. All faiths stood united – Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs. The solidarity transcended religious differences. Religious leaders stood side by side, denouncing the Merge as a violation of divine order and human dignity. We knew, we were certain, that merging was wrong. And now, here we are, a Combine, about to Pass.

  A chill sweeps over us. Do you remember the protests? We were so sure, so certain—

  A clammy hand grips our arm.

  We recognise the sapphire ring. The mole under the middle knuckle. We stop. But before we can react, Nathan lifts Mary’s hand from our arm and pulls us away. ‘Don’t be distracted,’ he says. ‘Remember to curtsey when you’re in front of the statue.’

  We glance back. So many unfamiliar faces. Mary stands among them, a solitary figure dressed in white amidst the pur­ple and green. We reach the statue, curtsey deeply, holding tightly to Nathan for support.

  We turn. Noah-Lucas smiles at us from the front pew.

  Then we see them. Lara-Jay.

  They came.

  They’re standing, allowing us to slide in between them and Noah-Lucas. We touch their hand. ‘Thank you,’ we whisper. ‘I’m so pleased you’re here.’

  They nod, eyes downcast.

  We sit, and Noah-Lucas squeezes our knee, smiling encouragingly. We look back at Mary. We hadn’t considered before now what a big ask this was. She’ll have undergone interviews and background checks to be granted access to The Village, and now she has to sit silently among strangers and watch her best friend’s burial.

  ‘Look forward,’ Noah-Lucas whispers. ‘Don’t torture your­self. Watching won’t make it arrive any faster.’ We realise they mean the coffin. The body. My body. We don’t want to watch.

  Mary wipes her eyes. We turn away. We know how she feels. We’ve been where she is, crying in a cold church.

  Our mind drifts back to all those Sundays forced to sit on the hard pew. Forced to stand for the hymns and listen as he prayed. In my experience, the people who spend their time preaching about loving and being kind to others are often the cruellest individuals. The good people, the people who would never think to do otherwise, don’t feel kindness is something that needs to be taught. It’s the people who preach about being a good person, Amelia. They’re the worst ones out there.

  We shift position, trying to prevent the memory that threat­ens to rise. We never once sat at the front. He preferred us to be at the back where we couldn’t be seen. He could get away with anything. Hidden, even under the eye of God. I always felt so squashed, as little as I was.

  Then we’re back there, sitting in a large, echoing church, squeezed in beside him. His leg is against ours, and he stinks of stale smoke. We want to move away, to escape the smell, but we don’t dare. We stroke the kneeler hanging in front of our knees, tracing the pattern of red crosses, trying to distract ourselves from the feeling of his hand on our leg.

  There’s a harp playing now, and everyone’s standing. We’re the only one still sitting, gripping the edge of the pew, our face hot. There’s a tap on our shoulder. Lara-Jay. We blink up at them, and they put their thumb up, a question in their eyes: All okay?

  We nod, get to our feet and force a smile. ‘Yes,’ we say quietly. ‘Thank you. How are you?’ We mirror their gesture, putting our thumb up. A new theory comes to us: What if Jay is silencing Lara? What if what Lara’s saying, deep inside, is simply too painful for him to process, so he’s blocking her out, refusing to let her voice break through?

  Eliza appears, her deep-purple robe brushing the floor.

  We catch our breath, then find we can’t breathe at all. We’re emptied of air, leaving our lungs hollow, as though we’ve been struck square in the chest. The coffin is here, being carried by pallbearers we don’t recognise. Their faces are solemn, their gowns purple. Support Workers. They’ve the expression of people carrying the weight of a corpse: dead.

  We force ourselves to breathe, gasping for air, inhaling as much as our lungs can hold. Someone clings to our hand, gripping tightly.

  The coffin makes its slow journey towards the altar.

  We’re in there.

  Dead. Decomposing to dust and bones.

  A cry escapes us. We cover our mouth.

  Another memory. The first time we met. Skin on skin. One of us terrified of the bright new world, the other trembling with love.

  That love poured into our lives like a flood, unstoppable and overwhelming.

  Now, that love is gone.

  There will be no more hugs. No more leaning into Mum’s embrace, feeling as though we could remain there, safely wrapped in her arms, forever. No more seeing her eyes light up when she laughs, the genuine joy spreading effortlessly to everyone around her. We’ll never again sit across from her, sipping tea and sharing stories, her gaze always so gentle and curious.

  The surge of grief takes us out like a punch. We fall back­wards onto the pew.

  Lara-Jay leans close. ‘I found it helped to close my eyes,’ they whisper. Again, it seems so effortless, so natural for them to be speaking. ‘There’s no rule that says you have to watch.’

  The coffin reaches the front of the church. We watch through half-closed eyes. There’s a powerful need in us to witness this moment, to see it in order to believe it. It’s like watching ourselves be put down, seeing the injection, the needle, a fine strand of hair, sliding in, and watching life quickly ebb away, like something physical leaving the room.

  Someone cries loudly behind us, another barely contain­ing their grief. Mary. We don’t turn. Our eyes remain on the coffin.

  Mum. Me. Us.

  Drenched in darkness. A body in a casket. Blood siphoned away. Our face made up, unreal as a mask. Grotesque.

  We know, somewhere deep down, too far to reach, that this isn’t what it appears. It’s not like Dad. Not like Mitchell. This isn’t death, just the disposal of a body, not of a person. But the grief, it turns out, remains the same.

  Once the service is complete, we move outside. The weather has worsened. The umbrella proves useless. It blows inside out, its spokes buckling. The wind drives the rain into our face. ‘Just here, Laurie-Amelia.’ Nathan’s chin is tucked to his chest, his eyes squinting against the rain.

  We stop beside a deep hole.

  Bile rises in our throat. We swallow hard, trying to regain control. It’s only a body we’re burying. A vessel, nothing more. To the left of the hole is a large mound of soil. Too much soil. Enough for three graves at least. We imagine it piling on top of the coffin, the earth closing in around it, the dirt pressing in from all sides, squeezing out any remaining breath.

 

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