His flush was just visible. ‘No, well obviously you … I’m not asking …’ He gave up. Looked away. ‘Never mind.’
A silence. Cassie lifted her cup, but the servings were as tiny as they were strong, and already there was nothing left but foam. He hadn’t meant to pry. He was clumsy, not nosy. Dog-like. Something big and long-legged, a wolfhound or a deerhound, meaning well and causing chaos.
‘When did you start?’ she asked. ‘The group, I mean.’
‘Just a few weeks back.’ He was eager, grateful for another chance. ‘It’s good, I like it.’
‘You think it’s helpful?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, definitely.’
‘But what, you just don’t feel like sharing? D’you always pass on the pig?’
‘The pig …’ He laughed. ‘I guess I’m just more of a listener. Like you.’ Serious now: he held her gaze. A challenge, or maybe an invitation.
She shook her head. It was her turn to look away. If she was a listener, it was only because she had no choice. She couldn’t tell her story, talk of how she was feeling, which was why she’d stopped coming. She’d begun to worry that her presence was resented. If she could have explained herself … it wasn’t pride that kept her private. She wasn’t holding herself apart, judging the others as they revealed themselves. But since she couldn’t explain, she’d skipped a week instead; then two weeks, then a month, and then it wasn’t a place she went any more.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’d like to speak.’
‘But you don’t.’ His tone was easy, but suddenly they were in a high place – near the edge – and she wasn’t decided yet. Step back, be sensible; or inch on forward, lean, or tip, or leap—
Sideways seemed a good move. She tilted her head. ‘The guy sitting next to us,’ she murmured. ‘On our left.’ She’d noticed him as soon as he walked in. If she was right about Lewis, he would have noticed too.
Lewis turned to look, subtle enough. Turned back, eyes narrower than ever.
‘What do you think?’ said Cassie.
‘About what?’
She showed him what. A gentle pinch of her ear, between thumb and knuckle: the receiver the guy was wearing. A sleek new model, titanium.
Lewis nodded. He’d known, really. Had wanted, of course, to be sure he’d guessed right. ‘Ahh … I think he’s an idiot,’ he said, ‘wearing that outside – and I think if he gets mugged he’ll have no one to blame but himself.’
They were at the edge now, poised. ‘Did you never do that?’ said Cassie, softly. ‘Never wear yours outside?’
Lewis barely hesitated. ‘No. I didn’t.’ His hand was at his ear again; she would have bet her weekly budget he had no idea he was doing it.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nor did I.’
It was out; they were falling, and it felt more like floating – like a long, stuttering out-breath, like noiseless laughter.
Lewis was smiling now, a small smile that slanted his eyes even higher. She leant towards him, close enough to catch a trace of his scent: clean laundry, soap, sandalwood. ‘Bet I can tell you what you did,’ she said. ‘Your first time.’ This was a kind of party piece, one she hadn’t been able to use in a long time.
‘We’re not talking about the group now?’
She shook her head.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Guess.’
It was what they all chose: ninety-four per cent, if she remembered accurately. ‘Flying. Right?’
He didn’t have to admit it; his sheepish expression was all the confirmation she needed. She laughed. An easy guess, but she still felt pleased. She’d impressed him.
‘What about you?’ he said, and she laughed again, shook her head. ‘Go on.’
‘Guess. I’m sure you can guess.’
‘What – flying too?’
‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘Everyone does. Almost everyone.’
‘God, that’s depressing, isn’t it?’ he said, still smiling. ‘To be so predictable.’
Cassie could feel her face mirroring his, an unfamiliar lift in her cheeks. Only at the top level, she wanted to tell him. That was predictable, yes, but when you started to drill down – the subcategories – that’s where it got interesting. [Flight >> unaided, solo; winged; altitude: high; value: tranquillity; additional elements: Invisibility] was quite different from [Flight >> unaided, group; unsupported; altitude: various; value: thrill-seeking, velocity; additional elements: Interactivity], and so on … Anything Make-Believable could be subcategorised, but the branching trees were longer than you’d ever think, and the combinations were, theoretically, infinite. She wanted to tell him this so he’d think she was interesting, and clever – but she had to watch herself. For all they seemed to have in common, she didn’t know this guy. But then, he wasn’t pushing anything. And speaking, actually speaking to someone: it felt like the sun coming out.
‘I’ve never met anyone the same,’ she said. ‘I mean. I don’t know how much the same we are. I don’t know what happened with you. But you are …?’ She hesitated, wary of asking, of putting it into words.
Lewis helped her out. ‘Terminated? Yes: I’m barred, completely.’
They were leaning close to each other now, heads together. Speaking quietly.
‘I thought it was only me. That’s what they told me.’
‘In their interests, isn’t it?’ Lewis said. ‘Make us feel like we’re alone, like we’re the problem.’
It was more than the sun coming out. It was haar lifting. A view coming clear: a landscape she hadn’t guessed at. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes: because that’s what I’ve never got. How it’s not that way for everyone. They told me it was me, like basically I was unstable and that’s why I reacted how I did.’
‘Which was?’
‘Oh God.’ She peered into her empty cup, and before she could tell him not to Lewis was on his feet, fetching refills.
She was buzzing already, not used to the caffeine. A long time since she’d sat in a coffee shop, drinking pricey espresso. She gazed around as she waited; the place was tucked away in a basement, had a hidden feeling despite the other customers. Perhaps that’s why Lewis had chosen it. How did it keep going, a place like this, while the world around it fell apart? There were enough people who had kept their jobs, she supposed, who were doing alright, were happy to splash out on little luxuries. Lewis was clearly one of them.
‘Thanks,’ she said as he placed a fresh cup in front of her. She inhaled the spiralling steam. ‘D’you know, that’s one of the things I could never quite get. Coffee. Something about the smell. I used to try and Make-Believe it, but it was always a bit – off.’ She shrugged. ‘That and chocolate.’
‘What was wrong with the chocolate?’
‘The way it melts. It just – didn’t.’ She took a sip, and lowered her voice another notch. ‘You know we can’t do this. I can’t anyway, I can’t speak about it, they made me sign something. Did they – you too?’
He nodded.
‘But you weren’t an employee?’
He stared at her. ‘You – work for them? For Make-Believe?’
‘For Imagen, yes.’ She checked over both shoulders, wanting to be quite sure no one else was listening. ‘Not now, not any more. But, yes.’
He was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. Then: ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was a beta tester. I’m a web developer, and for some reason they offered us all a free trial, the whole tech team.’
‘Because you were connectors.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well-positioned to influence the behaviour of potential early adopters across extensive virtual networks.’ She’d impressed him again; it was slightly pathetic how pleased she felt with herself. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I wrote that marketing strategy.’
‘Ah.’ He considered. ‘So does that make it your fault, that I’m here?’
‘I suppose, technically, it does.’ She was pretty sure he was joking. ‘How did they make you sign? I mean, with me – they just, they had me. I
was in breach of contract. I’d properly fucked up. But why did you agree to keep quiet?’
‘I, uh … I hacked the bioware.’
His expression was one of embarrassed pride.
‘You hacked … What and how, exactly?’
‘Because – I was so – it was just, my perfect world.’ She could see his gaze turning in. ‘I wanted to be there constantly, always – and it started to feel like two hours was just nothing, and every time the sessions ended, it was like – it was painful. You know, literally. Painful. To be yanked out, thrown back into the real – the grey, cold – nothing—’
Her face had gone soft as she listened, a tide of sympathy for him, and for herself. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Because, anyway, I know. I know exactly.’
‘Sorry.’ He closed his eyes for a few seconds. Mentally shaking himself. ‘Well, so what I did was I fixed my receiver. I hacked it so the—’ He paused. ‘How technical d’you want me to be here?’
‘I mean I know how it works, obviously I had to know all that. But I’m pretty far from a techie.’
‘OK: the antenna that picks up the data transmitted by Imagen – I modified it so it blocked the disconnect signals. So I could stay as long as I wanted. I could stay for hours at a time.’
‘Hey, clever!’ she said, genuinely impressed.
‘Not so clever, as it goes. It took them a while to notice, but when they did’ – his voice had gone lower, rougher – ‘they screwed me, totally. They banned me, of course. If I try to re-register, pretend to be someone else or whatever, my DNA’s on a blacklist so they’ll know straight away. I’d broken the terms of the service agreement, which meant they could have prosecuted. That was it, that was how they got me. I promise not to talk about it, and I don’t end up with a record. It was a no-brainer. I could have lost my job, could have been sued – I could even have gone to jail, I suppose, if someone had wanted to make an example.’ A pause. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I could have called their bluff. They wouldn’t have wanted it to go public, any of it: the fact that the whole thing is so addictive, the fact that the receivers can be hacked like that.’ He lifted his coffee, but didn’t drink. ‘And there must be more of us, you know? Otherwise, well – too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘Coincidence, like how?’
‘Us, meeting here, at the group. There’s no way it can be just the two of us, can it?’
‘No. No, I suppose not.’ He was right. The thought hadn’t occurred to her, though of course it should have. ‘That would be a ridiculous coincidence.’
‘But they’ve kept it pretty quiet, haven’t they. You don’t hear about people getting addicted. You don’t read about it, people don’t talk about it. And it’s right what you said, how they make you think there’s something wrong with you. But actually, I think it’s the opposite. I think you have to be really imaginative, and really’ – he stopped, searching for the word – ‘committed, I suppose, to Make-Believe a world you can’t bear to leave.’
She found herself nodding slowly. ‘Like the theory that it’s only the most determined people who become smokers? Because the first cigarette is so horrible, you have to really persist in order to develop a habit.’
‘Kind of like that, yeah. Which makes us pretty special.’
Cassie shrugged, noncommittal.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Going on a bit. I must really have needed to … not talk about it. So what about you? Can I ask now, without massively offending you?’ He was taking the piss, but that was OK. She deserved it, for being precious.
‘Can’t talk about it,’ she said. ‘Obviously. But actually, that aside, I don’t know how well I can explain it.’
‘Try?’
She took a breath, right down deep. How much did she really want to tell him? Her jacket was slung over the back of her chair, the memorial card still in the inside pocket. She wouldn’t talk about Alan. Wouldn’t talk about her family, either. Wasn’t going near any of that. ‘Well. The perfect world thing, and the yanking out. The painful stuff. That. All that was the same as you said.’
He nodded: understood.
‘It just happened,’ she said. ‘That I was staying longer. It was sudden, I remember the first time—’ Remembered the disorientation; the disbelief; how the world had flipped inside-out. ‘I honestly didn’t do anything to make it like that, I didn’t hack anything or fix anything, I wouldn’t know how; they said I must have altered my account privileges but I didn’t. So I still don’t understand, really. But fair enough – what I didn’t do, and I should have done, was to tell them. It got to the stage I was spending all night in Make-Believe, and going to work and just getting through it, finding somewhere to sleep for an hour if I could get away with it, at lunch in an empty office, then the next night, the same thing again. I must have looked like the walking dead.’ She laughed, though it wasn’t funny. ‘I could barely speak. They thought I was having a breakdown or I don’t know. And then, eventually, they realised what was going on. And’ – she smiled, spread her arms wide, a gesture of defeat – ‘they screwed me. Totally totally.’
‘And,’ he said, ‘is that it, is that why you’re at the group?’
‘Is there anything else, you mean? Yeah, well, afterwards – there was other stuff to deal with – or, not deal with.’ Other stuff. Her sister Meg, the kids, and the whole sorry aftermath. She shook the thoughts away. ‘So cos of that, there was a while where I was drinking too much, and other stuff, and – I didn’t have any money and I was kind of, actually in a lot of trouble and – it was hard.’
Finally: here she was, telling her story – and it was just the same as all the other stories. It was hard. Enough. She was boring herself.
‘You?’ she said. ‘Any other little addictions, or was it Make-Believe pure and simple?’
‘Make-Believe,’ he said. ‘Nothing else can touch it.’
Cassie was suddenly aware of a lack of music. Tables were being wiped around them, lights flicking off. They were the last two customers.
‘Suppose we’d better go,’ she said. ‘Let them get closed up.’
She waited as he gathered his things, his pannier and his helmet, and together they climbed the steps from basement to street level. The wide bright sky made her blink: it had felt late, tucked away down there. But then, it was late, after all. It was nearly June, and it would stay light the whole evening.
They began to walk back to the meeting house. There was more, lots more for them to not talk about. More she wanted to find out about Lewis. And there was something else she was curious about. His smell – its warmth, its spice – brought a memory, a feeling, almost within touching – and she couldn’t remember if it was real or Make-Believe, and she shook it off because he was real. Lewis was real, and the here and now was real in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.
That layer of skin was still missing, the one she’d lost in the meeting when she’d raised her hand to give him a sign. What she needed now was another sign: something from him. Something to let her know what was happening inside his head or his body, behind his skin and the wall of his skull. She stole a glance at him, hoping for the dizziness back again, hoping to see into his thoughts. But his eyes were too dark. Too narrow. Unreadable.
They had reached the railing where their bikes were locked. She fished her key from her pocket, undid the chain. When she straightened up, she saw Lewis was smiling, like she’d done something funny.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Just surprised you have to lock it!’
She stared at him, eyebrows raised. So her first impression of him had been right after all. She stuffed the lock into her satchel, turned away to swing into the saddle. ‘Yeah, well. It gets me there.’
‘No, wait: I didn’t mean … Look, that front wheel seems a bit out of true. Does it steer OK?’
Cassie glanced back at Lewis. Shrugged.
‘If you want – we could go back to mine. I could fix it for you.’
She p
aused, foot poised to step on the pedal. To cycle back to her crummy bedsit, where she’d be kept up half the night by the music from her neighbour’s flat, by the trickle of customers chapping his door at all hours. Where she’d stare at Valerie’s memorial card, and think about Alan, alone. About the memorial service in five days’ time – how she couldn’t bear to go, and knew all the same that she must.
Or Lewis’s place. For just one night, to step out of her bleak reality, into the brief escape he seemed to be offering.
It was a risk, of course. Perhaps that was what made it irresistible. Or it was her curiosity about him; or else it was simpler than all of that. She had started to share her story with a halfway presentable man, after too long on her own, and that was all it took.
CHAPTER THREE
Lewis hadn’t imagined how it would feel to have another woman in his flat. How she would change the air around her, set the molecules vibrating in each room she entered.
But once he’d made a pot of tea, and they’d started to talk again, it didn’t feel too bad. It was Make-Believe they talked about, of course. Nothing personal. Nothing that mattered. She complained about what it had done to her brain, how she forgot things; he was the same, he said. She sat at the kitchen table, right-angled to him and close enough to touch, and she seemed quite comfortable – or no, that was the wrong word. There was nothing comfortable about her. He’d seen that as soon as he’d walked into the meeting this afternoon, how she’d held herself contained, compressed. He’d pretended not to notice her, had carefully let his gaze slide past her. But then he’d felt her watching him. And when he glanced up, he saw that she’d figured him out – though he hadn’t said a word. Because he hadn’t said a word. A sign, to show they were the same: it was as simple as that.
Outside the window, the sky turned midnight blue, then black, and then it began to rain.
‘Your bike …’ he said. ‘I could bring it inside, maybe. Take a look at it in here.’
‘Although … it’s pretty late.’ She paused. ‘You could wait till it gets light again. Look at it in the morning.’
A User's Guide to Make-Believe Page 2