When I was smaller, I didn’t know we were poor.
My father worked in the mines off world. Each month he sent back whatever meagre amount was left from his salary after he’d paid off his lodgings, food, and the credit transfer fees. It was enough to keep us in a small flat in the capital. I loved that place. While my mother looked for work, or went to the food bank, or whatever it was she did with her days, I was free.
I played soldier in the streets imagining myself on the outer worlds commanding legions and claiming planets. I would attempt to dig in the abandoned cellar at the bottom of our tower block, barely scratching the concrete foundations with a broken shovel that was nearly as tall as me. I imagined finding minerals that would make us so wealthy my father could come home.
I didn’t have any friends. I was one of only two children in the tower. The other I rarely saw. But it was my playground, and I loved it all by myself.
Really, I should have gone to the academy. It was compulsory at that time for all children to be educated properly, but the truth was I could not afford to attend.
So, I stayed at home and I played.
Those were probably the best years of my early life.
When I was eight or nine years old, word came that there had been a mutiny of some kind and my father had been involved. As he should have been, he was executed for his crimes on the orders of the board of directors. But devastatingly for my mother and I there would be no more money sent home.
Due to our financial position, the company had, graciously decided not to pursue my mother and I for the funds my father had been sending us. But our family were blacklisted from their employment for the next few generations at least. When I reached sixteen, I would not be able to work for them, neither would my children, nor their children.
At that time the board believed that dishonesty and disloyalty were incurable hereditary conditions that should not be allowed to fester.
I don’t really remember my father. He had rough hands, I think, and he would spin me around the room and throw me onto the bed until I was in pain laughing.
We lost our home that same year and we moved further south into the old state housing building.
The government had left it to rot it decades previously and it had slowly been claimed by the desperate, the criminal, and the lost.
We shared a two-bedroom flat with two other families. I imagine it had been habitable once. But it was dank, and dark, and covered in green mould. The single tap that worked spat brown, brackish water into a cracked sink and the drips joined the large stain on the carpet beneath.
I must have been nearing ten when we moved there, but I was small for my age malnourished, and spindly legged.
The other families we lived with were a great comfort to my mother for a while. We shared food when we had it and traded stories of how we had found ourselves destitute and forgotten. They were the Millers and the Habibs.
There were three Millers, the mother Mrs Miller and her two boys, Danny and Jordan who were both in their late teens. They were tall and wiry with a streak of something unpleasant running through them. They left early every day and returned late at night, sometimes with food, sometimes with money, and sometimes with jewellery.
One day they went out and did not return. Nobody knew if they had moved on, been taken by the police, or were dead somewhere in the capital acting as food for the great black rats that ran riot in the lower streets.
Mr Habib told me that they had likely been captured for their thievery and would either have been sent to a penal colony to work off their crimes or executed in the bowels of the magistrate’s court. He was a jolly man usually, but the disappearance of the boys had revealed a stern, disinterested worldview.
He worked as a train cleaner in the capital terminus. Each day he would set off on a two-hour journey to clean muck, bugs, and often the remains of desperate people off the front of the gleaming trains.
He made very little money, but it was enough to feed his three young daughters and occasionally buy medicine for his invalid mother. I have no idea what happened to his wife, he never spoke of her.
The Habibs had the master bedroom if you could call it that. The only bed in the house was constantly occupied by Mr Habib’s mother, she was old. The oldest person I had ever met and would lay there all day staring blankly into the middle distance.
The room smelt of decay, rotting meat, and stale urine. The stench seemed to pour out of the woman, leeching into the walls and the remaining furniture.
To be honest with you all, she scared me. In my mind she was a human mannequin, unmoving, unthinking, rotting away from the inside out, but her grandchildren adored her.
The eldest Maryam gave her a sponge bath most days, and with the help of her sister Aisha rolled her over to stop bedsores, and moved her into the good chair whilst Raina the youngest would change the bedding.
In the evenings, Raina would sit at the end of her bed and invent stories for her. I often sat near the door and listened whilst Mrs Habib drifted off to sleep.
With the loss of the boys and a large portion of our food, my mother started working. At first, I didn’t understand what work she did, but she left in the early evening wearing tight clothing and dark makeup and would come back before dawn with a small amount of food. It had been a few weeks since the Miller boys had vanished when Mr Locke appeared on our doorstep one evening.
Mrs Miller was still grieving the loss of her sons and had not left the house since they had vanished, but Mr Locke wished to speak to her specifically. My mother left him on the doorstep while she spoke to Mrs Miller.
I took the opportunity to study him. His eyes were a piercing pale blue and scanned our home with a look of morbid curiosity, his thinning blonde hair hung in lank strands across his forehead, and he wore a neat, expensive suit, much like the one I’m wearing now.
I expected Mrs Miller to turn him away, but whatever Mr Locke had said to my mother seemed to have caught her attention. Mrs Miller welcomed Mr Locke in, and his head skimmed the door frame as he entered.
My mother, Mr Habib, and Mrs Miller gathered in the living room while us children were shepherded into the Habibs’ room. I remember taking one last gasp of fresh air before covering my mouth and nose with my shirt.
I pushed my face as close to the door as possible, peering through a crack desperate to see what was happening, to see anything really. I don’t know why Mr Locke fascinated me. Perhaps I had a premonition of my future but there was something about him that made me stare.
Through the crack I could only see his legs robed in the tight navy material of his suit. His shoes were a rich oxblood leather, and they reflected the dim light that glinted through the windows.
He was standing in the centre of the room, while the others buzzed around him attempting to clear sleeping mats and bedding out of the way and gathering chairs that could feasibly hold the weight of a grown man. I remember him tapping his leather shoes against the carpet impatiently.
Eventually the space was as clear as it could be and Mr Habib placed a rickety chair down for Mr Locke, who removed a large handkerchief from his pocket and draped it over the seat before he sat.
“Thank you for allowing me into your…” he paused momentarily, I think he was searching for the word to describe our hovel, “…home.”
“You’re very welcome.” My mother’s response was forced; I could see her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap.
“I had come here to speak to Mrs Miller, but as you are all here, I thought I would share this opportunity with each of you. I work for an organisation called Neurolyx and we have recently developed a new product that is ready for human trials. Just so you are aware, I must let you know that having invited me into your home you have consented to a non-disclosure agreement about this conversation, the product, Neurolyx, and myself.”
“What exactly does that mean?” I still remember the unease in Mr Habib’s voice.
“Very simply, our conversation here is private. Anyone found to be sharing information about this conversation, myself, or the product I will be discussing, will be liable to criminal proceedings. My company believe this product has the potential to revolutionise how humanity experiences the world, therefore secrecy is of the utmost importance. I must say that the non-disclosure agreement extends to all members of the household present, that includes your children and Mr Habib’s mother.”
Behind me Raina turned to Maryam and asked, “how could Teta tell anyone? She can’t speak.”
I saw Mr Habib’s hands ball into fists.
“How do you know about my mother?”
“Mr Habib, I mean no offence. We know who you and every other resident are. It is simply a part of the research my company engaged in before we decided to approach Mrs Miller. While she was our choice for the research, we need volunteers and I believe, considering your financial situation, all three of you would be interested in being involved.”
It was my mother who broke that frosty silence that had formed around Mr Locke, “financial situation? So, we could get paid? You know, for doing the testing?”
“Oh yes, your compensation will be… transformative.”
I’m fairly certain he was smiling as he leant forward in the chair resting his palms on his knees, not that I could see his face.
It was Mrs Miller’s turn to break the deadlock. “So, what is it? The product I mean.”
“I will leave you with some information that will explain everything. But for now I will let you know that the product is called Nidra, and my colleagues and I believe it will resolve the grief you are currently experiencing for the loss of your children.”
Mrs Miller let out a small gasp before breaking into tears. I was too young to recognise the grip that grief must have had on Mr Miller. It was so odd as a child to see an adult broken by what seemed a simple statement.
“I think you should leave now.” Growled Mr Habib.
“Of course, I have taken up too much of your… valuable time. It was a pleasure to meet you all. I will leave the information on Nidra here. I look forward to hearing from all of you.
With that Mr Locke stood up, removed a small screen from his pocket and placed it in the centre of his handkerchief before striding out of the flat
Mr Habib picked up the screen and gestured to the others to follow him. My mother and the teary Mrs Miller filed behind him into Mrs Miller’s room.
When we were finally allowed back into the living room, I asked my mother to see the screen, she gave me nothing. But I saw her whispering with Mr Habib throughout the evening.
Mrs Miller didn’t come out from her room, but I heard her crying. She cried while we ate. She cried while we readied for bed. And as I drifted off to sleep, she was still crying.
The next day at breakfast Mrs Miller wasn’t there. I asked my mother where she had gone but I was told to hush and eat my food. The thin gruel made of cheap oats and synthetic milk tasted like I had licked the carpet, but in those days I had no alternative.
My mother took me out after breakfast. We went to the station at the corner of our district and using the little money she had travelled into the capital. She had never taken me into the city centre before.
“Where are we going? Are we going to see Mr Locke?” I asked
“No. You are not to mention that name outside of the house!” she snapped at me, “Look, we don’t need any legal troubles. Your fathers name will make life hard enough for you, we cannot do anything else to jeopardise your future.”
When we arrived near the financial district she gave me a battered hat and a credit transference pad and had me sit outside the main entrance, begging.
Most of the day I sat there and the majority of people in suits didn’t even look at me. By the time we went home again we had just about covered our train fare and had a little extra to buy more oats and synthetic milk.
When we entered the flat Mrs Miller had returned.
She was reborn; there was a lightness of step that I had never seen before. Her face sat in an easy smile, and she stood tall against the kitchen counter. On the counter was a bag of groceries that put our oats to shame. There was meat, real meat, it must have cost her a fortune, and there were vegetables and even chocolate!
I had never tasted chocolate before; it was better than I could have imagined. Sweet and creamy and melting behind my teeth. I must admit even now it seems an addiction that I cannot shake!
Mrs Miller was amazing that night. A roaring wave of energy and laughter she poured drinks and cooked and even sang. But at moments I found her looking at me or the girls. There was such sadness in her eyes. Sadness and confusion.
It would last for half a beat and then vanish back into a smile or a laugh.
I couldn’t work out what had happened, but I knew, I knew that she had gone to see Mr Locke.
Mother didn’t go out to work that night; Mrs Miller had filled the cupboards and told us the food was for us all to share.
As we lay down to sleep, I went to interrogate my mother, but she beat me to it.
“I know what you want to ask. It is not for us to discuss, Mrs Miller made her choice, and we have to respect it. Do you understand? Don’t ask her any questions, and don’t mention the boys.”
I was puzzled by this, I had been avoiding bringing up the boys for fear of upsetting Mrs Miller, but she was happy now.
My brain buzzed with questions. What choice had Mrs Miller made? Why couldn’t we discuss the boys?
I slept fitfully but was woken by Mrs Miller closing the front door.
It was early, far too early to be heading out. I could think of no reason why anyone would be leaving before the dawn. She was going to see Mr Locke again. She had to be.
But I had no time to consider Mrs Miller. The stillness of that morning was broken by a howl of grief from the Habib’s room.
It was like a chorus; Mr Habib’s low keening became the bedrock of a tortured melody. Maryam, Aisha, and Raina soon added their crying to the mix.
I learnt shortly that Mrs Habib had died in the night. Slipped away, that was how my mother referred to it. I didn’t really understand it, how could Mrs Habib slip away, she couldn’t walk.
The euphemism only became apparent when the authorities took her body away for incineration.
The Habibs did not have the money for the proper funeral rites so they would not receive her ashes, in return for the body of Mrs Habib they received a receipt confirming the collection of one cadaver.
Mrs Miller returned that evening, this time with a delivery man trailing in her wake. Within minutes he deposited a new bed, dining table, and chairs. Mrs Miller tipped him very generously.
When my mother told Mrs Miller what happened I saw that there was something in her eyes that I didn’t understand. She kept looking at the closed door to the Habib’s room and asked my mother how Mr Habib had reacted and how the girls were coping.
I now know that what I didn’t understand was something very simple. Like all good people, Mrs Miller could spot an opportunity.
The girls were devastated, Maryam and Aisha sat quietly at the new dining table, their hands rested gently on their laps as they stared out of the window to the grey skyline. They plainly ignored the rich beef stew that Mrs Miller had prepared.
Raina did not leave her Teta’s bed. She sat there quietly crying for hours. When I looked in later, she had curled up at the foot of it and fallen asleep.
That evening Mrs Miller and Mr Habib talked in hushed tones. Whatever Mrs Miller was saying she almost seemed to be pleading with Mr Habib, then she reached into her pocket and retrieved a small screen. She gave it to Mr Habib and just for a moment I saw charming cartoon and the words, Why Regret? Just Forget!
I shuffled closer doing my best to seem nonchalant whilst straining to hear any of their discussion. To think how obvious I must have looked. Can you imagine a ten-year-olds attempt at nonchalance? But I got close enough to hear Mrs Miller.
“... think about it, you’ll all feel better, you’ll be rich enough to leave here, and I’ll get a referral bonus. It’s always good to make the best of a bad situation right?”
Mr Habib stuffed the screen into his own pocket and went back into his room.
That night whilst lying next to my mother I asked the question that I still couldn’t work out.
“What did Mrs Miller give away?”
My mother sighed. Not a sigh of annoyance. But of acceptance.
“Her grief, and her joy. All of it. I think. She will never have to work again. But she has lost so much.”
“The boys you mean?'
“Yes love. She’s lost the boys, now go to sleep.”
The flat was a darker place after Mrs Habib’s passing. The girls barely spoke or ate, and Mr Habib was going to work earlier and coming back later.
Mrs Miller was the opposite of the mood in our home, she was all smiles and whistling and even at one point dancing in the kitchen. Mother took me begging most days, I made very little and as the days went on, I made even less.
Those people who had given me money seemed annoyed that I was asking for more, whilst those who ignored me before stuck to the same tactic. Mother also went back to working in the nights, meaning I slept alone.
I asked her why we were begging and working now that Mrs Miller was rich, but she warned me in no uncertain terms that Mrs Miller’s charity while nice was not a future for us.
“Who knows if she’ll keep supporting us.”
She was shrewd my mother.
At dinner that night Mrs Miller informed us that she would be moving out.
“As you know I have improved my financial standings by working with Mr Locke. In fact I have improved them to the extent that I will be leaving. I have purchased a bungalow overlooking the sea and will be moving tomorrow.”
She paused to allow the emotional weight of this to sink in. If she had been noticing the reaction of her audience she would have seen the disinterested stares of the girls, a confused scowl on my face, and Mr Habib and my mother exchanging a side eyed glance.
“Now I will leave this lovely new dining table, chairs, and my new bed as a gift to you all. Perhaps you can use it instead of the one used by the late Mrs Habib. But after I leave, you will have to source your own food.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could she have made so much money that she could buy somewhere new? She had given us a glimpse of a new life. Good food and laughter and now she was abandoning us. I couldn’t understand why she got to be safe and comfortable.
I realise now what a normal choice this was. She had shed her grief and gained a fortune, who would choose to stay in abject poverty? I now live near to where Mrs Miller moved and I can tell you all it is far more beautiful than that mouldy flat.
But I was only ten and my childish anger came crashing out of me, “How can you do this! First the boys, then Mrs Habib, now you? It’s not fair!”
I can still picture the look of puzzlement on her face.
“The boys?”
“Your sons? Danny and Jordan? What if they come back and you aren’t here?”
“Sons? Don’t be silly. I don’t have any children.” I remember being baffled by this.
Before I could continue to shout at her my mother grabbed me by the collar and dragged me into the Habib’s room and sat me down on the stinking mattress.
“Be quiet, she doesn’t remember them.” “What do you mean?”
My mother looked exhausted. You know, poverty weighs on a person.
“Nidra, the product Mr Locke came to see us about, it takes from you. Mrs Miller can’t remember Danny and Jordan because they do not exist for her. There’s no point talking to her about them, they don’t exist.”
I didn’t understand what she meant at that time, but it was the first time I saw the power of Nidra.
We went back into the sitting room and had a pleasant last evening with Mrs Miller. I don’t think I ever saw her again.
Mr Habib took the girls into the city a few days later. The four of them came back giggling each holding a large red ice cream. The melting treat was dribbling over Aisha’s fingers and spilling onto the carpet, but Mr Habib didn’t seem to care.
They were laughing and joking when Mr Habib opened the door to their room.
“Yuck!” Screeched Raina. “Why does it stink in there?”
The girls ran back into the sitting room covering their mouths and chittering about what could be causing the stench. But Mr Habib, he just stood there, inhaling that rotten smell with a single tear running down his cheek.
Mr Habib had the girls gather their meagre possessions, he ignored their whining about the smell.
I heard him speaking to my mother.
“I don’t know what it was. I think I remember everything around the decision but… well it’s gone either way. We cannot stay here though.” “Why don’t you stay the night? You can find somewhere new tomorrow, stay in Mrs Miller’s room.”
“No, whatever it was it can’t be good for the girls to stay here. We’re leaving now. We have the money to stay in a hotel now. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, I have transferred you some credits for food.”
It took them about fifteen minutes to collect everything they owned and head off into their new life.
As I was drifting off to sleep in Mrs Miller’s comfortable new bed, I noticed my mother counting her credits and asked her the final question I had.
“Will you sell something to Mr Locke?”
I felt her tense beside me.
“I don’t know honey. Go to sleep."
We lay there in the darkness, both pretending to sleep until I finally did.
I woke alone in the bed. There was no food the kitchen. The flat was empty.
I remember not knowing what to do with myself. We needed food and we needed money, so I took myself into the city and set up in my usual spot.
That was when I saw her. My mother.
She was walking aimlessly through the streets, staring at the buildings like they had fallen from the sky.
I threw myself into her arms nearly knocking her over.
“I thought you had gone!”
She knelt down and looked into my eyes without a flicker of recognition.
“Oh hello, are you lost?”
“Mother?”
She wiped the tears from her face.
“I’m sorry must be the dust, really makes my eyes sting. Now don’t worry I’ll help you find your mother. Do you know where you live? I don’t think I’ve been to this city before.”
I pulled myself out of her reach and sunk to the ground.
That was how Mr Locke found us, my mother asking people if they knew who I belonged to and me crying on the pavement.
He spoke to my mother.
“Don’t worry, I know where he lives, you can head home. I’ll look after him.”
I watched my mother smile and wander away without a backwards glance.
Mr Locke explained everything as he took me to my new home.
Knowing our perilous financial situation my mother had sold everything. All of her memories for an enormous sum enough to lift me out of the gutter permanently.
But she’d done something more, her sacrifice was of such a benefit to Neurolyx that Mr Locke guaranteed a job for me when I turned 18.
And that’s why I’m here today, because I know what Nidra is. I know what it costs and I know what good it can do.
Nidra can be transformative for people stuck in poverty, or grief, or depression. It was for Mrs Miller. It was for the Habibs. It was for me. My mother’s sacrifice saved my life, she doesn’t remember that, but it gave me a future that had been impossible.
And that’s why I think she would be proud to see me here today announcing the launch of Nidra 2.0.
The Nidra 2.0 is fast, efficient, and safer than ever.
And with Neurolyx’s new care package, we can further support your transition to a new life. Whether that’s creating a new home, organising care for your loved ones, or finding you a new career option we’re here to help.
The Nidra 2.0 Why regret, when you can forget!