A User's Guide to Make-Believe

by Jane Alexander

  His girlfriend’s bike.

  So she was real, after all. A real, dead girl. Lewis must have trawled every bike shop in the city. Must have bought it back for well over the grand she’d sold it for. And he surely must have asked the shop owner for a description of the person who had sold it.

  Lewis knew what she had done.

  She felt the floor turn swampy with shame. Shook her head, refusing to be tugged down. Slid her eyes past the bike, pretending not to see. If he wasn’t going to mention it, neither was she.

  In the kitchen, she sat in the glare of the overhead light while he filled the kettle, assembled the mugs, the teapot. She rubbed her forehead, trying to dislodge a high sharp buzzing.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘did they come for me?’

  He gave an exaggerated yawn, playing for time as he felt for the right story. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They came yesterday, first thing. A young guy in a suit and an older woman.’ The kettle clicked off, and he poured in some water, swilling it round to warm the pot. ‘I told them I didn’t know where you’d gone.’

  ‘And they were fine with that?’

  ‘I guess they didn’t seem too happy about it, but what could they do?’

  He placed the pot on the table, sat opposite her. Reached a hand across the table and wove his fingers into hers. His eyes were red-rimmed, whites tinged with pink; she guessed he’d had very little sleep since she’d been gone.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’

  He sounded sincere. But of course he was glad. Whatever deal he’d struck with Imagen would be back on the table now – as long as she was here, believing.

  His dark hair was pushed to one side from the pillow. She wanted to reach out, tease it back into place, wanted to hurl his tea in his face, to yell at him, ask him how he could have done it, how he could do it now – sit with his hand over hers, and lie and lie. She kept silent, sipped from her mug. She was waiting for him to leave the room, to send a message, make a whispered phone call: She’s back, come and get her now, before she does her disappearing act again … But he didn’t move. Just sat there, the warmth of his skin coming off him in waves. Why wasn’t he reporting her? Perhaps this final moment of betrayal was harder than he’d anticipated. It was the last thing she needed, his conscience kicking in. She stared at his smooth face, trying to see the feelings churning under his skin the way they were swirling under hers.

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I want to tell you something. Or, ask you something.’

  He was alert, suddenly, and trying to hide it by lifting his mug slowly to his lips, taking a measured swallow. ‘OK, sure …’

  ‘I’m not really one for talking about feelings. You’ve probably gathered that.’

  The shadow of a smile passed over his face. ‘I’d gathered.’

  ‘But when Imagen come back for me – and they will come back – well, I don’t know quite what’s going to happen. So if I’m going to say this, I have to say it now.’ She kept her eyes fixed on his. ‘Ever since we met, I’ve felt a real connection. Like straight away we were really close. Like we’re the same, like I’d found someone who – mirrored me. Like you understand me.’ She stared, noting the muddy blush that touched his cheeks just faintly. ‘But was that only me? Was it my imagination?’

  For the first time that morning, Lewis dropped her gaze. Glanced down at the table, then back up again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I felt it. Just like you said.’

  She wanted to believe him. Wanted to know he’d felt it too, the connection. It shouldn’t make a difference – but it did. It did. ‘Did you dream of me, ever?’

  He blinked. ‘I guess so – yes.’ His forefinger tapped once, twice, against the mug he was holding. It could be a nervous thing – but any man would feel twitchy with this kind of conversation. Trouble was, if he’d been lying ever since they’d met, she had no idea what he looked like when he told the truth.

  ‘When?’ she said. ‘When was the first time I was in your dreams?’

  ‘Maybe … maybe it was the first night you stayed.’ He nodded, just once, like he was agreeing with himself. ‘Yes. I did. I dreamt of you then.’ He looked at her, eyes dark and unreadable. ‘I remember, because it was a good dream.’

  It was a sort of relief that took hold of her then. He might still be lying to her, but his words made her feel she wasn’t quite such an idiot for having trusted him. Because it made sense, all of it: the timing, the dreams, how quickly she’d felt at home with him. And it meant what she’d felt for him was nothing more than a chemical state, an addictive state, created by hormones and neural mechanisms. In a way, just as Imagen had been using him to get to her, their biomolecular networks had been doing the same.

  She wasn’t responsible for how she’d felt. She wasn’t responsible for falling for him. None of it was real.

  The relief must have shown on her face. He was frowning now, watching her closely.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why should it matter when I first dreamt about you?’

  She felt a sudden spring of sweat needling her palms, her armpits. She’d pushed too far, asked the wrong questions. His eyes were as narrow as she’d ever seen them.

  ‘No, it doesn’t …’ she said. ‘I just wanted to know—’

  And then the entry com buzzed.

  Her head jerked up; tea spilt from her mug onto the table. She looked at Lewis, confused. He hadn’t been out of her sight, there had been no chance for him to contact Oswald. And then she realised: he had already done it. He had heard her on the stairs outside, heard her unlock the door, heard her whispering to the cat – and before he came to her in the hallway, he had reported her to Imagen.

  ‘It’s them,’ she said, and he nodded.

  ‘I guess it must be.’ The pretence now seemed half-hearted. No feigned concern. No offer to protect her, if she’d changed her mind. Nothing but indifference, setting hard behind his eyes. He was already half out of his chair when he said, ‘Shall I let them in?’

  For a moment she sat frozen. Then she jumped to her feet, almost knocking over her chair in her hurry to follow him. For some reason, she wanted to go down on her own.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to let them in.’ Lewis hesitated, hand poised over the entry com. ‘I’ll go down to meet them. I’d rather.’

  He shrugged. Unlatched the door, and stepped aside.

  Cassie passed through the hall, taking care not to look at the recovered bike. In the doorway she paused, and gave him a crooked smile. ‘Aren’t you going to wish me luck?’

  ‘Of course.’ Lewis reached out, placed a hand on her arm. His face was empty as he spoke. ‘Good luck, Cassie.’

  Before she was halfway down the stairwell, she heard his front door shut and lock behind her.

  She was glad, now, that she’d sold his dead girlfriend’s bike. It was the very least he deserved.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Street lights still glowing, against a bright dawn sky. On the doorstep she paused, knowing this was why she’d wanted to walk down alone: this unreal, in-between moment, the gift of all the time that was left.

  The passenger door of the Audi swung open. Oswald stood with a smile, with his arm outstretched. ‘Cassandra,’ he said. ‘So glad you’re ready. Better late than never, if you’ll forgive the cliché.’ He opened the back door, gestured for her to climb in.

  She ducked, slid along the seat. Let him shut the door. Heard the click of the central locking. In front, a dark-blonde bob; the woman in the driving seat. Cassie couldn’t help herself, turned her head for one last glance at Lewis’s flat, which still felt somehow like a place of safety. She searched the windows for someone looking out for her. But the glass was dark and blank, and no one was watching. Not Lewis; not even the cat.

  The car pulled away from the kerb, and the building vanished from sight.

  Cassie swallowed. Ran her tongue around her dry mouth. ‘I never did get your name …?’ she said. In the strip
of mirror she could see the woman’s eyes fix on hers for a second, before she returned her expressionless gaze to the road ahead. In the passenger seat, Oswald didn’t shift. ‘Oh well. I don’t suppose it matters. Actually, I meant to say. You don’t have to worry about giving me back my job – or letting me back into Make-Believe.’ She’d planned it out, what she needed to say for her best chance to get out of this. Only, it was hard to keep it straight. The motion of the car was making her nauseous; her head was buzzing, her eyes jittering. She clenched her jaw, hoping it didn’t matter if they saw her fear. Fear was normal, wasn’t it? Anyone would be scared. ‘Like I said before, I’m doing this for my friend, to stop the connections. That’s all. And I’m not threatening to tell anyone what I know, so you don’t need to worry about that. Only – if today, for whatever reason, I don’t come back – you might want to worry about who I’ve already told. What might leak out onto the internet, say.’

  From the front of the car, there was no reaction. Oswald and the woman faced dead ahead. It felt as if she were already gone, was absent from a world that seemed to be pressing in, exaggerating itself. The low sun strobed by buildings, by an avenue of trees. Anyone would be scared; and she was, she was terrified. Of Oswald, the woman – of what they might do. Of the thing inside her, the living thing, glitching her brain. Of the horror that waited for her at the hospital.

  And her greatest fear of all: that this wasn’t going to work.

  They’re not going to let her walk away from this – that’s what it tells her, their indifference. That’s what they believe – and she has to believe it too. What Morgan had told her. She could be dead a half hour from now. Dead, or worse – crashed, trapped in her head – malfunctioning, broken. But she has to believe the opposite, too – that she can do what she promised, can survive unharmed, untouched – she only has to hope—

  —hopes it won’t be long now till he’s back online, back in Make-Believe. The receiver sleeping in his hand. Waiting for it to activate, for the deal to go through, his side of the bargain complete now and no need to hide it any more under socks and pants at the back of the drawer, not now it’s all over and Cassie is gone, gone for good this time. Unlike her, at the end, to talk like that. To ask about dreams. He doesn’t want to think about that, doesn’t want to admit it, hadn’t ever wanted to dream of Cassie. The hardest thing – to watch Cassie, two nights ago, to watch her sink into Make-Believe and find whoever it was that she’d lost, and to have to stay behind. All he wants, to get back to her – but what if he can’t? He’s worked so hard to remember, to keep a hold of every tiny detail, but lately he can’t remember her voice, has lost the tone of it, lost the exact shape of her accent. Three months without Make-Believe – how could he forget her so fast? After this, will he still be able? Practise, while he’s waiting. Practise, in the real world. Remember her eyes. Remember her laugh. But no, that’s wrong, it’s Cassie’s laugh – it’s wrong, so start again. Remember her laugh – hang onto that, and don’t let go—

  —to let go of everything: she has to be ready. And it shouldn’t be so difficult – because what is there, really, to hold her, in the whole of this world? She’s untethered – freed from family, freed from love, the idea or the reality. So isn’t it funny, now, how connected she feels – now, for the first time, now when she thinks of leaving it all—

  —all sorted out, an hour from now – and clearly the girl can’t be left to wander round telling the world what she’s pieced together, he and Eric are in agreement there, and even the ministerial advisor has acknowledged that accidents happen. Really the best thing would be if the girl just … if she never came back to herself. Call it a breakdown. Could easily happen – after last time, the state of her. But if not, if he has to … He’ll do it. He’ll see to it. Until she’s connected, delivered the upgrade, she’s the solution: soon as it’s done, she becomes the problem, needs to be solved one way or another. Solved, not shelved – no more worry, no more uncertainty. He’ll be able to relax for the first time in he can’t remember, feels like for ever this has been weighing on him, and God it’s stuffy in here, get that window open, just a crack, just for some air—

  —air that she moves through, that moves through her – the early morning light, pressing milky white against the windows – the sun itself – the humans surrounding her, all those strangers, hundreds of thousands of them, sleeping or waking, breathing and dreaming, held close inside the city – and further, the millions and billions of people slowly turning under the sun or the moon – connected even to the cockroaches hiding inside the walls of her bedsit, even to those. Skin tingling, the molecules that make her self touching, sparking, singing against the molecules that make up now and here—

  —here again, déjà vu. The girl in the back. Oswald taking up too much space in the passenger seat. She’s not prone to fancy but she’d swear she feels it as she slows the car, feels the dark pull of the hospital. The damage that’s leaked from this place, into homes and living rooms, bedrooms and dreams – it seems the whole thing must be irrevocably broken, the technology so tainted that it will never be made to work. But no: all there is, is human error. Not hers, thank the Lord, because if this doesn’t work then none of the others – the Minister, the researchers, Tom Oswald, his CEO – none of them will survive. They’ll be buried by what they knew, approved, concealed, and only she will slide back into professional invisibility. One way or another, it’s almost over now—

  —the journey over now, wheels popping gravel then bumping on soft dirt, and she knows they’ve arrived, and Oswald is giving her a choice, at least. This, or this: the receiver, or the needle. Kind of him, to let her choose – or maybe not kindness, maybe he guessed she’d have cold feet … The receiver slips in her hands; she has it bad, the shakes and the sweats, and like a mother or a sister he leans across, fixes it gently onto her ear, a decoration, a death sentence – and she wants to say No, but it’s too late, wants to say I’ve changed my—

  —the minds waiting for her – Cassandra’s warned her, told her what it will be like, told her it will be hell, but she is here for Mika. Low in the front seat, close as possible to the locked ward, watching the silver Audi drive up the slope and almost into the bushes. Cassandra understood it, what could happen to her, was ready all the same – and in a way that’s why she’s here despite herself. Cassandra’s bravery something to live up to: for Mika. For Mika. If this works, and please God let it work, somebody needs to spread the remedy. Somebody needs to be the link between locked ward and outside world, and there’s only her. It has to be her. This is the bravest she’ll ever be. Concentrate, now. Hold the receiver ready. Slip it on – finger shaking, ready to press, ready to plunge—

  —plunged instantly – a thrash of minds, and hers submerged – screech of the slaughterhouse. High twisted screaming – the bleeding red of a fresh kill – what should be hidden torn apart, trailed into the open, still living – and through the ear-splitting, brain-splitting howls she tries to listen, tries to hear him. Alan. Tries to sense him, touch him – feels for the rhythm, for OK, OK—

  —OK but nothing ever will be, nothing ever, he’s caught again, the same as night after night after night, an endless fight, the backwards-angled teeth dig deep, piranha-grip, a knife-sharp trap—

  —she’s trapped, and inside her skull a yielding as the tissue of her brain shivers, uncoils and rises, slick rippling snake with teeth tapered to glittering points, poised to plunge its fangs into the slack matter that drags at its back and instead the jaws crack wide, unhinge and swallow—

  —swallowing whole, till the terror is all – engulfing, digesting – acid from the outside in, acid from the inside out – till the terror is you yourself—

  —her self consumed and as she goes, it all goes, all of it – the feast of minds disintegrating, one by one snuffed out, and out, and out, each a bright blink, blood-red afterimage – echoes of souls in the dark. Then – silence. Then – nothing. Then – the battlefield, when
the battle’s over—

  —wanders over, casual-like, just the way she told him, just a man walking his dog – Come on, Leia, heel – just a man walking his dog, a home-made electromagnet pulse device along with the poop bags in his pocket … Hand loose around the bundle of wires and circuit board, hoping he’s timed it right. The driver’s seen him – she’s turning the key in the ignition – but he’s close enough now, he presses the switch and boom right on cue the alarm starts to wail, and the driver’s panicking, struggling to shut it off but good luck with that – and the EMP that triggered the alarm should mean the doors are unlocked – yes, and he goes straight for the back seat and Christ, OK, she warned him, but Cassie, what the fuck? What have they done to you? A guy coming out on the passenger side, a big guy but old and he growls a signal to Leia and good girl she starts barking her head off, growling and baring her teeth, and the alarm’s done its business and up at the hospital doors are opening, lights going on and the old geezer shrinks back into the car and the driver’s reversing now, out from the bushes but he’s got his hands in under her arms, and she’s soaking like, and he heaves her out, and all the time Leia’s barking like mad – Leia, heel! Leia! Into the bushes, Cassie draped heavy over his shoulder, and all they need is to make it back to the road, back to where he left the car – that’s what he’s saying to Cassie, who can barely walk let alone talk and Christ knows if she can even hear him even make sense of what he’s saying, but he says it anyway. They’re going to make it back, right? That’s what he says as they crash through the bushes. Him and Cassie and Leia. They’ll make it alright. They’ll make it. They’ll make it for sure—

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ‘Surely she should be awake by now.’

  The voice comes from somewhere else. Down the hallway, in the next room. Somewhere close, and far away.