Chapter 34

She pawned her mother’s wedding ring.

It got her £680 in twenty-pound notes, counted out one at a time, agonisingly slowly, as the woman behind the counter licked her fingers on every fifth note, intoning the sum. It was probably worth £3000, but she didn’t quibble. Not today.

It wasn’t enough.

She went back to her mother’s house, raided her jewellery box, took earrings, rings, the TV, her mum’s laptop. That netted her another £270.

Then she drew out all the money she could, and took the cash from her mum’s wallet, and the extra cash she kept hidden in an old make-up box above the wardrobe for a rainy day. She didn’t deposit it into her bank account. The credit card companies would have snatched it up in an instant; she knew this. Instead she took it to the post office, and sent the money direct to Fullife. The moment the transfer was complete, she called them.

“ . . . Please press one for upgrades and in-app purchases, two for technical support . . . ”

Waited for the music to play.

“Hi there, my name’s Tom. How can I help you today?”

“My name’s Harmony Meads. I’ve been in punitive financial reclamation for over a year. I’ve just sent you the money to clear my debt. Have you received it?”

“Ms Meads, give me a moment . . . Yes, yes, I can confirm that we’ve just received payment from you – congratulations! We will be restoring your full privileges and ending punitive financial reclamation. Please update your nanos when you are next in a reliable Wi-Fi area . . . ”

“Is it finished? Is it all done?”

“Yes, Ms Meads, I believe that you are now fully out of arrears with us and we will be resetting you to the basic immune services at a cost of . . . ”

She hung up, before he could finish speaking.

Went back to the house.

Sat downstairs.

Turned on her phone.

Opened the app.

Hit update.

Closed her eyes.

It took a while.

There wasn’t an explosion of colour, an eruption of sensation.

Something a little pink about her mum’s armchair, perhaps.

A fleck of emerald shining out of the fungal grey of the coffee cup.

The smell of freshly vacuumed carpet.

A hint of rotting leaf on the patio.

A sudden spark of holly berry in the bushes.

A flash of orange on a robin’s breast.

A stab of car fumes as a Fiat raced by.

A brilliance of purple on the buddleia growing by the postbox.

The smell of rain, promised from the sky.

This is Harmony Meads, opening her fingers to the wind, her senses to the heavens, as she comes back to life.

Chapter 35

Of course, in the grand scheme of things, a little bit of cash, a week off the rent – it means nothing.

The debts were still waiting, the stationery shop, the morning after, the train to the hospital at the end of work to catch the last of the visiting hours.