Futuredebt - 7 - Chronocoin
I’m releasing a novel called Futuredebt across 2024, letting it go one chapter at a time. The first chapters are available for free, but you’ll need to join my Patreon to read later chapters.
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How long do you stay when you know it isn't going to last? The future has told Kerry the man she loves today will not be the one she marries in the future. Now she has to decide what she does with that knowledge. Meanwhile, at the other end of society, Fi finds herself struggling with a world that seems to be working against her, pushing her into the heart of a revolution plotting to bring the system crashing to its knees. Futuredebt is a story of free will, self-determination and how small acts of kindness can be a catalyst for change.
Chronocoin
They will give her a printed record of the coin along with a written offer of purchase tucked in a white office envelope embossed with Cyan's logo. She lays it on the passenger seat and fingers its edges. The thing looks like a giant business card.
Kerry Faber.
Her phone bleeps and the display lights up.
How'd it go? J
Good question. She types a response and deletes it. She tries another set of words, but every combination she tries seems stunted, piling up in her mind like laundry. In the end she settles for: When are you home? and throws her phone on top of the envelope.
She slides her finger under the lip of the Cyan envelope, teasing the seal without breaking it. They had offered a lot in exchange for the coin. She could repay John for every penny and still have enough money left over to buy herself a studio of her own. She could set up a little gallery - not huge, but in an area where her art would get seen by all the right sort of people.
Everything is possible when you know you have a future.
She checks her phone. John isn’t replying. She tries Dinah, lingering before she hits send. This time the response is instant.
Just finishing up after a client, says Dinah, her voice sounding tinny over the car’s speakers. You wanna come over? I’ll be done soon.
Dinah’s flat is perched on the edge of the town centre. There is never anywhere to park. Kerry leaves the car on a side street just behind the main row of pubs and boutique pop-up shops and walks the rest of the way. Let us say it is humid as she makes her way there. That way we can have the air itself seem to stick to her, crawling beneath her clothes like thick, slow moving fingers. She can even stop in the doorway of a hairdresser to pull off her cardigan, if you like. Maybe a homeless man begging there whispers about revolution and conspiracy in that way the hopeful sometimes do and she smiles weakly to deflect his attention. Who knows? But little details like that make it feel more real, don’t you think?
Dinah buzzes her into the lobby over the intercom. In the lift, Kerry will check her reflection in the mirror gleam of the doors. Drizzle clings to her hair, limp and heavy. Other than that, there will be nothing about her that would stand out as different to the person she was when she left the house. She wears the same clothes. Her brain grinds beneath the same headache. And yet something has still changed. She stares at this distorted reflection in the lift doors, obese with opportunity, and tries to pin it down. Maybe it is the way she stands. Maybe it is the knowledge she has a different future. She has money now. She has a chance to make something of herself. Is that something you can see?
She tries speaking out her future name. Kerry Faber. The syllables clatter against the steel doors like knives in the cutlery drawer. Kerry Faber. Faber. She doesn’t know anyone called Faber.
Dinah opens the heavy door to the apartment dressed in a neat grey blouse topped with a purple neck scarf. She leans against the frame.
Isaac is wanting to readjust the child maintenance again, she says.
Again? Kerry shakes off her coat. She pinches the fabric under her arms to separate the dampness of it from her skin.
Oh yes, says Dinah, taking the coat and shutting the door behind her sister. Wants it increased another £50 a week. What happened to your nice coat?
This is a nice coat.
The one with the sunrise.
This sort of weather just makes me sweat, mutters Kerry, ignoring her. Can I grab some deodorant? £50 a week sounds a lot.
It is, says Dinah, pinching Kerry’s top between her fingers. You know, polyester isn’t going to help with the sweat.
It’s cotton.
Really?
Kerry groans. How are you a therapist?
Deodorant's in the bathroom, says Dinah. Cupboard next to the sink.
Kerry finds it easily and gives herself a liberal spray to mask the shock of the morning. There are dried spots of toothpaste splattered across the bottom corner of the mirror and after she replaces the deodorant she picks at one with with her fingernail before washing her hands.
I thought the money had all been sorted, she says as she enters the kitchen. Was it because of Mum's 70th?
Apparently, it took us over the access threshold for this year, meaning he's going to reduce the payments by, I think, £135 this month?
Dinah is sat at the breakfast bar, two mugs of black coffee arranged on coasters on its surface.
For two extra days with Jacob?
Yup.
Arsehole.
It’s Jacob I feel sorry for, trapped in the middle of this.
I bet. But I suppose you just have to suck it up and go with it.
Oh I'm not going to do it, says Dinah. It was one weekend. God, it's like he's deliberately trying to piss me off. You want something to eat? I made sandwiches, she says and touches the plate behind the mugs. Hummus and roasted veg. Thin sliced Italian ham.
He can't just change arrangements like that, says Kerry. Completely unfair.
You know, I wouldn’t expect anything else. I really wouldn’t. This and the fuss over the Audi - it’s just par for the course.
You shouldn’t let him.
Well, what can I do?
Just refuse.
Dinah sighs. I know, she says. Perhaps I should go through legal again. Cut contact.
Might be for the best.
She sits back in the chair and picks at the ham in front of her. I thought that things would be better once I was on my own again, she says. But it’s just added another layer of pressure to everything. And I just found out I’m a client down this week, so it’s not even as if I’m earning what he says I’m earning. I’m actually bringing in less than when we were together.
Sorry to hear that, says Kerry, easing a strip of parma ham into her mouth with the tip of a finger.
Yeah well, says Dinah, waving a hand dismissively. I don't know, I’m fine. It doesn’t make that much difference. But it's just one more thing on top of everything with Isaac. Every conversation we have, we have to go over and over the same old things every single time. I just don’t want another shouting match every time I speak to him. I just want to be civil with each other but it's like arguing with a child. But I’ll be fine, you know. It’s just in the moment it all seems so, I don’t know, eugh!
Kerry lays down her crust. Dinah takes her hand and squeezes. Sorry, she says.
It’s fine.
Oh God, this is depressing, Look, come on. Talk to me. Take my mind off it. Tell why you’re pissed off.
I'm not pissed off, says Kerry.
You're not happy.
I'm happy.
Really?
I’m happy enough.
Dinah refills her coffee cup from the pot. You weren’t happy at my party, she says.
I enjoyed your party.
I could tell, says Dinah. You were drunk out of your skull. I think you enjoyed it more than me.
I didn’t drink that much.
John had to practically carry you out.
Maybe a little bit.
Just be careful, says Dinah.
About what?
Dinah shrugs.
You mean with John?
I just want you to be safe.
Kerry taps her sandwich against the plate. This again?
Dinah takes a bite of her sandwich.
I’m safe with John, says Kerry. What happened before was just an accident.
Didn’t seem like an accident, says Dinah, her mouth full.
It was. We talked about it.
The memory of pain flashes in her mind, the back of her skull hitting the concrete, John standing over her already spurting a thousand slurred apologies as he helps her up. It was an accident. They talked about it after.
People change when they get drunk, says Dinah.
He doesn’t drink anymore. I never even asked him. He just decided to do it for himself.
He’s a good guy then?
Yes, she says.
Dinah swallows her mouthful and folds her hands beneath her chin. You’re very forgiving, she says. But anyway, there’s still something going on. So come on. Spill.
Spill.
Flowing from the rooftop
The food catches in her throat. Dinah gives her a gentle pat on the back to dislodge it. It takes a minute of coughing before she can speak. When she does, she asks: You know much about the FDF?
Dinah, shrugs. Enough to know I think it's a fucked up system, she says.
Kerry reaches into her bag and places the Cyan Inc. envelope on the table between them.
What’s this?
Open it, she says. It’s from the future.
Dinah scoffs.
Seriously, says Kerry.
Dinah lays down the remains of her sandwich and picks up the envelope.
Dinah drops the remains of what she is eating and picks up the envelope, ripping open the seal.
Oh shit, it’s not something about how you die, is it?
What? No. God, that’s so morbid.
OK, says Dinah, spreading the contents flat on the tabletop. So what is this?
Chronocoin, says Kerry.
What, the money thing?
Yeah.
Holy fuck, says Dinah, pointing to the figure printed on the paper. This is for you?
I still have to exchange it. They buy it off me.
And this is genuine? This isn’t some prank?
Nope.
My God, Kerry.
It’s from me, she says. From my future-self.
Wow. OK. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? At least it means you’re alive in the future. How far in the future are we talking about?
Don’t know. Look at the name.
Where is it?
There, she says, tapping the page.
Kerry Faber, says Dinah.
Yup.
OK.
In the future I’m Kerry Faber.
Shit.
Yup.
John Truman, says Dinah. And Kerry Faber.
Yup.
Does he know?
She shakes her head.
Dinah moves the plate away and reaches over to take Kerry’s hand. Saying it out loud has made it real.
I’m sorry, says Kerry. You got a tissue?
Dinah leans over and grabs a box from the adjoining surface, knocking a pile of manilla folders that slip and slide across the table, up-ending the sandwich plate and scattering crumbs over the both of them.
Shit, sorry, says Dinah, using the tissue box to prop up the landslide. This is empty, anyway, she says. I’ll get a new one. Back in a sec. Don’t worry about the mess.
She scurries from the room, leaving Kerry to organise the table into some sort of order.
Then she sees you, buried among the paperwork, printed onto paper never intended for photographs, the ink warping the surface.
The girl who fell.
The picture is pinned to the front of a thick brown envelope with a paperclip. Your hair is shorter than it was when she saw you and pinned back at the sides so your face is clear for the camera. It’s the shot from your ID badge, the one you wore every day clipped to your uniform. But she doesn’t know this. All she sees are the same dull rims around your eyes that she saw that day as you lay broken, fixed on some unseen heaven in the sky.
Her handbag is still on my lap from when she brought out the Chronocoin receipt. Dinah can be heard padding back along the hallway. John would want her to ask about you - to find out why she has your picture. But that is what John would want. In the light of the morning’s revelations, she isn’t sure what future lies there now. Her hand is on the envelope before her mind is made up. Without thinking, she slips it into her open bag.
'Here,' Dinah says, back in the room. She holds out a cube of tissues, one lifted out of the box ready to take. Are you going to tell him, she asks. About the coin. About what it means?
Kerry clasps her bag shut over the envelope, cold shivering across her shoulders.
I don’t know, she says. What good would it do?