Part Three of The Guardsmen. Read part one here and part two here.
3.
Anaïs walked quickly down Old Bloor Street, hugging her arms to her chest against the wind. It had not snowed in days as the temperature had remained firmly below - 20 and mounds of filthy snow remained piled up along the sidewalks. She hated this part of town. What had once been the most fashionable and luxurious area was now a wasteland of empty buildings and littered streets. She passed what must have once been a high-end department store, the mannequins still standing in the windows, a haunting reminder of an old city that she never knew. Someone had covered the face of one mannequin with a photograph of the Prime Minister and placed it into a graphic sexual position with another mannequin. Anaïs laughed and then quickly swallowed it. Whoever had done this was very reckless. Anaïs was amazed that the display was even still in existence. The Guard was usually quick to remove anything that could be construed as anti-government propaganda.
Anaïs turned down a few side streets, eventually coming to a stop before a derelict building with boarded windows and a crumbling façade. The walls must have been white once but now they were covered in scrawling graffiti and old, peeling posters. She double-checked the map on her phone and the little blue dot indicated that she was in exactly the right place. She tapped the dot and a small pop up appeared with information about her location but it provided no specific information about the building in front of her. It appeared to be deserted. Abandoned homes were everywhere in the city. During the Crisis hundreds of wealthy families fled the city of Toronto to the surrounding areas. This exodus left many wealthy neighbourhoods in downtown almost completely abandoned. After the coup, when order was restored, some chose to return, creating new exclusive enclaves in the West End. They lived in steel and glass high-rises surrounded by with heavily guarded walls close to the government offices on the Lakeshore. But most previously wealthy downtown neighbourhoods, like Yorkville remained completely empty.
Anaïs tried the front door but it had frozen shut. She worked her way through the snow to a window and wiped away the frost, peering inside. The interior was exactly what she expected, a desolate open space cluttered with trash. Anaïs turned away disappointed, unsure of what to do next. It was freezing. The wind was blowing the snow around her ankles and into the hood of her coat. Anaïs glanced at her phone to check the time. She had been so excited when she read this address as the mysterious final entry in her grandmother’s journal but now she was stumped. ‘What a master spy I am,’ she thought to herself.
She turned to walk away from the house when a beeping sound made her pause. It came from a small surveillance camera that was attached to an electrical pole at the corner of the lot. Anaïs continued walking towards the street, glancing backwards to see if the camera was following her movements but it did not seem to change direction. Anaïs then turned and walked quickly back towards the front door and as she passed a certain point in the path the camera made the same beeping noise followed by a soft whirring sound. Anaïs recognized it immediately. It was the sound a lens makes when it zooms in.
Anaïs thought the camera must have been government. No one else would be allowed to install a camera on the street like that. That meant that the government was surveilling this building. This was not uncommon. There were cameras everywhere in the city. But the fact that this camera was motion sensitive and programmed to zoom in implied that the government was particularly interested in people visiting this building. Anaïs glanced around the property, taking in details she had not noticed on arriving. She saw that the snow leading to the doorway was disturbed, with multiple footprints crisscrossing her own. Yet there was no signs that property was inhabited, no garbage on the sidewalk, no evidence of any fires being built by drifters to stay warm. This was strange. It was normal for a house to be abandoned, but not this abandoned. There should have been more evidence of drifters, cigarette butts and fresh garbage. Especially in weather like this it was strange that no one had chosen to shelter there. Second, why would the government bother to keep tracks on an abandoned property? And what was the deal with these footprints? Nothing made any sense.
Her curiosity sufficiently piqued, Anaïs decided to stake out the house for the rest of the day. She crouched behind the crumbling wall that divided this property from the neighbouring one. Within twenty minutes she was shivering and her knees were cramped, she cursed to herself for not thinking ahead to bring stake out supplies. She imagined a thick wooly blanket and a thermos of hot coffee and nearly sighed out loud. She shifted her weight so that her back was propped up against the wall. She knew she would not last long like this. She began to feel that familiar tired ache creeping into her body. The urge to go home, curl up in Marguerite’s bed and forget everything that had happened was nearly unbearable.
No, Anaïs thought suddenly. She could not go on living in a fog anymore. For the first time since Marguerite died she was taking control. She had tried to dull her grief with drugs and booze at curfew parties and that had not worked. She had tried to sleep her grief away. That had not worked. She knew then that the only way she would recover from the loss of her family was to discover the truth about their lives. And so she would stay outside the house for as long as it took.
This renewed determination did not last long and within another half an hour Anaïs was once again daydreaming of coffee and a warm bed. She thought of all those times she had passed drifters in the streets, being chased out the subway by the Guard. She could not imagine spending more than a few hours out in the cold, let alone days or even months. Another half an hour passed and Anaïs was sure she would give up soon. Her boots were soaked through and she could not feel her fingers or toes. She was hungry and her whole body throbbed. But she did not move and her stubbornness surprised her. She thought of her parents to pass the time and tried to imagine what their connection to this derelict property in a forgotten neighbourhood could be.
Anaïs was only ten when they died and they had been private people. Her mother had been a beautiful woman; poised, stylish and immaculately put together. She was tall and angular with reddish, brown hair that fell in impossibly perfect waves to her shoulders. In all of Anaïs’ memories her mother wore the same cream skirt and matching jacket. Around her neck was a thin gold chain on which hung her wedding ring. No matter how hard she tried Anaïs could not imagine her mother any other way, and some days it was impossible to conjure any memory of her mother at all. It was only in her dreams that she could envision her differently, more at ease, more playful. Anaïs could not reconcile these two images of her mother, and she was unsure of which to trust.
Her father had always been a mystery to her. In her memories he was little more than a shadow in a suit. Because of his position within the government he was not bound by curfew and often did not come home until Anaïs was already in bed. Anaïs’ childhood was a happy blur of sleepovers, dance lessons and holiday visits to her father’s family in the Caribbean. Anaïs had never questioned this idyllic upbringing. Even when her parents died and she moved in with Marguerite, little changed in her routine.
Anaïs wondered then if it was normal that she knew so little about her parents. She could not imagine any of her private school friends crouching in the snow in their plaid skirts and knee high socks, spying on an abandoned building in hopes of finding out why their family was being surveilled by the Guard. She was entertaining herself with this image when a figure appeared on the path, walking briskly towards the front door. Anaïs rose slightly to peer over the wall and get a better look. The man, well boy really, took a large brown envelope out of this backpack and slid it through the mail slot in the door. The he turned, waved at the camera and walked away quickly. What in the hell, thought Anaïs, scrambling to her feet to follow him.
The boy walked quickly down Yonge, his black coat flailing behind him. Anaïs could not see his face but he was tall with broad shoulders that he held very straight, almost haughtily. He stood out among the other pedestrians who, like Anaïs, were hunched against the winter wind. Anaïs followed the boy into Dundas Square and glanced up at the screens. Less than an hour remained until curfew and Anaïs had no idea where this boy was headed. She struggled to keep sight of him in the winding downtown crowds as hundreds of black coats headed down into the subways and hopped on and off of streetcars. His direction varied constantly, at one point he seemed to be heading directly south and then he turned left on Queen heading east, then north on Sherbourne and soon they were almost back where they had started in Yorkville.
A group of joggers in matching tee shirts approached and the boy crossed the street to avoid them. Anaïs tried to follow but traffic had begun to move and she was stuck. Anaïs kept her eyes peeled on her mark. She finally managed to dodge her way through the honking traffic and caught up with him on Bloor. He entered a café and made his way through the small tables to a booth in the back, where he sat. Anaïs watched him through the window for a moment and then entered the café after him, almost fainting with relief from the cold. She had enough of this sleuthing business and decided she would confront him right then and there, in the warm café. Anaïs paused at the door to hold it open for an exiting customer, and then she headed straight for the booth, unsure of what she would say. But the booth was empty. On the table was a cup of coffee, still steaming, and a small square napkin with a note written in blue ink. ‘Nice try. Here’s a coffee for your efforts. Keep warm. xoxo”
He knew she had been following him. He was mocking her. She could not believe it. She thought she was being so clever. Anaïs sunk into the booth and removed her gloves and boots, her fingers and toes tingling as they warmed up. She took a sip from the coffee and tore the note into tiny pieces, cursing to herself. She glanced up and saw a young couple looking at her from across the café. She scowled and they turned away. She realized she must look like a drifter. This thought made her laugh out-loud, once again drawing stares from the other customers.
The music in the café paused briefly and the speakers began to emit a loud, tinny chiming sequence, like an old grandfather clock. It meant there was half an hour left until curfew. The customers in the café began to pack their things, and head home. Anaïs followed them out into the cold.
