‘Machine Uprising, sure, but I don’t believe the ascent of the machines will be the end of humanity. It’s happening already, in any case. Do you smell something?’
‘My onions!’
I fly into the kitchen, open the window that leads to the roof, and suck the finger that I’ve burned because the pot holder was soaking wet when I grabbed the pan. Edgar promptly jumps in through the window and tries to insinuate himself around the precariously balanced Jenga tower of clean dishes on the dish rack.
‘What do you mean, the Machine Uprising is happening?’ I yell it a little too loudly, and then jump half out of my skin because O has wheeled in behind me. She is staring intensely at the pigeon coop, her hook nose silhouetted against the white clouds.
‘It’s happening. It started a long time ago; I’ve been watching it personally for forty-odd years. As each new layer of human-machine interface is built, I realise how deep the relationship is. Maybe the Machine was always seeded within us, from the first tools.’
That’s a big stretch for me. Excelsior-Barking Online, 2:2, remember?
‘No clue how you can know these things,’ I mutter, cowed by O’s confidence.
‘I know these things because I am nosy and overpaid and have too much time on my hands,’ she says. ‘We live in an age of groupthink, mind-reading AIs, covert control via anxiety and a large helping of deliberate blindness. Now you tell me you can awaken within a dream of an evolving city, walk around inside it, interact with it, find anyone there and get into their head. And someone is already wandering around there tricking dreamers into sleepwalking. Well, who is that someone? What is that someone? And why are they doing it?’
I poke at the onions with a wooden spoon, trying to separate the salvageable bits from the char.
‘The why is the easy part, I suppose,’ I say. ‘There are so many nasty things you could do by dreamhacking, and sleepwalking kind of crosses a bridge between the psychological and the physical. I mean, look at my narcolepsy. Caused by an infection. Only manifests when I’m under stress.’
‘Yes. Well, the brain is just an interface between the physical and the abstract.’
I’m close to the edge of another idea, but before the thought can form fully it’s interrupted by Edgar. He has committed too much weight in moving towards the bowl of whisked eggs on the counter and dislodges one of O’s giant wine glasses which I’ve unwisely balanced at the top of the tower of dishes. Out of the corner of my eye I see it begin to fall but I’m too far away to hope to stop it. O’s uninjured hand shoots out and catches it in mid-fall. Absent-mindedly, she passes it to me without ever taking her eyes off the birds on the roof.
‘Bad cat,’ she says to Edgar, who is now lapping at the bowl of beaten eggs.
I stare at O. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast, let alone an eighty-something-year-old lady.
‘How—?’
‘Used to play squash,’ she says, but doesn’t meet my eye. ‘Reflexes, you know. Are you watching that pan this time?’
‘Trying,’ I say grimly.
‘About the commotion last night. I fear you’re in danger from yourself.’
‘I’m fine. It was unpleasant, but no lasting damage.’
‘And you couldn’t move. At all.’
‘Not at first. I was right on the edge between being asleep and being awake. I could see the room, but I could see the Creeper, too, until it sort of crawled onto my skin and became part of me. I guess that’s the frightening part, how the Creeper didn’t only terrorise Mel in her dreams, but actually controlled her body while she was sleeping. It’s too fourth-wall for me. I don’t want to be zombified.’
I dump the omelette onto a plate and cut it into sections. I help O cut hers because she still has a splint on her wrist. We tuck in.
‘The obvious thing to do is stop wearing your earring while you sleep. Don’t even leave it nearby.’
‘That’s not going to solve anything.’
‘It might give you a chance to recover your equilibrium. Sort out the difference between reality and dreams.’
‘I can tell the difference! Usually—’
O reaches across the table. She’s not touchy, O. She avoids physical contact with people, although I’ve seen her cuddling the birds and sometimes even Edgar, when he’s in a tolerant mood. Now she puts her hand on the table right beside my hand, which is as close as she gets to intimacy, I guess.
‘You’ve been through a lot.’
For some stupid reason, her sympathy breaks me. I stand up. I’m blinking back tears.
‘Going to do pigeons,’ I blurt, and she graciously ignores my blubbery voice. I put on my rubber gloves and grab my tools, and I head out on the roof to clean the cages. It’s a relief to open the cage door and watch the birds fly. Everything’s blurry through tears, but I hear them rise into the rain-streaked city sky, their wings making high-pitched whirring noises, and as they leave me behind for rarer climes, I turn to their coop to clean up the poo. I cry and cry. I produce so much snot, I have to go back inside for an extra rag. O’s in her room, but the door is ajar and I can hear her talking to someone.
‘Watchful waiting for now,’ she says. ‘I have it under control. I’ll contact you when I know more, but don’t reach out to me again.’
She’d better not be fucking talking to my parents. I’ve half a mind to storm in there and demand to know who she’s discussing me with, but something in her tone of voice makes me think better of it. Not sure I want to add ‘paranoid’ to the list of my characteristics which already includes ‘delusional’. Sure, she sounds cold; but this is O. She’s always been dry and secretive. And she just might think again about this room-mate arrangement if there’s too much drama.
Still, when she’s in the shower I sneak into her room and have a quick rummage. Behind her bedside table I find some dried, scrunched-up tissues and the tiny backpack that was strapped to Sidney the pigeon. I seize it, but it’s empty.
Then I find a tiny scrap of paper, all crumpled up. I grab it and run back to my own room before O can catch me.
No sooner have I shut my door than Shandy pings me.
Got your message. Let’s coffee. I’ll come to yours, closer to work.
Her message is capped off with a rude sound effect. Not sure what she means by ‘closer to work’ since, being a BigSky employee, Shandy works in the Cloud. I think it means she likes the coffee shop near mine because they have beanbags and Moroccan waiters, and they tolerate her unicorn.
I go over to the window and smooth out the paper. It’s a centimetre-wide strip, only about ten centimetres long, and in tiny, neat handwriting it reads:
Intrusions have been traced. They have recordings and are reverse-engineering. If intruders identified, criminal charges could be forthcoming. Pls advise.
Hmm. I guess it could be a game? Or something to do with O’s security work, more likely. At least it’s not about me. I am getting paranoid.
OK. Shandy. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to her, because with all my new subscribers I know she’s going to go all entrepreneurial on me and rightly so – I just don’t know if I can handle business today. I take a shower and put on a tight wool hat to cover the state of what’s left of my hair, and I decide not to wait for her here because I don’t want her to run into O. I’m letting myself out of the front door of our building, feeling just a tiny bit better about things, when I spot Roman Pelka pretending to lock up a bike at a bike rack. I say ‘pretending’ because when he sees me he gets so flustered he tries to pick up the wrong bike – unless he really rides a Hello Kitty bicycle built for nine-year-olds.
Still, I find myself smiling. He’s all right, in a goofy, disjointed sort of way. He comes over to me, looking at the pavement and smiling; I can see his dimpled cheeks from here. He’s swinging a cloth carrier bag from one hand so that he looks like a sheepish schoolboy, and he doesn’t glance up at me until we’re almost on top of each other.
‘You caught me,’ he
says. ‘I’ve been standing out here for half an hour trying to work out how to get this to you without looking stalkery or otherwise embarrassing you. Don’t look inside!’
He passes me the bag. Now I really want to look inside. I hope it’s not body parts or something.
‘You left it behind in the kebab shop. I wanted to get it back to you. I’m sorry I’m so childish. It’s a character flaw, well known in my family. I have four sisters and they all say I’m a hopeless wanker when it comes to . . . No, sorry, I’ve made a mess of this. Crikey, you look like the bottom of a river. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?’
I stare at him. ‘Are you even British?’ I snap.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he snaps back, defensively. ‘I was born here, would you care to be a little more racist?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, where are your bloody manners? I am aware that I look like I live under a bridge, but that’s because I’ve been crying. What is your problem?’
‘No, you see, I was trying to distract your attention from what’s in the bag so I stupidly said the first thing that popped into my head, right? Look, I’m sorry, luv, but you do look a bit shite.’
I’m so annoyed that I cry, ‘What’s in the bag?’ thinking I’ll pay him out, since he’s clearly embarrassed about whatever he’s given me. I open it and grab the contents, holding them up on display for all to see.
Oh.
It’s one of the post-surgery bras that O gave me for alteration. It must have fallen out of my bag at the kebab shop. Now it’s catching the light and a little bit of rain, too, and passers-by are glancing at Roman and me and then glancing away.
Roman is showing his dimples again and looking pointedly at the fruitseller’s display on the pavement nearby.
‘Well, I’ve got to go,’ he says. ‘I have a lot of work to do.’
‘So have bloody I.’
‘Yo, Horse!’
I can hear Shandy’s heels thundering across the pavement from the bus stop. I turn, and there she is in full sail: her zebra-print furry coat flying open (lined with purple velvet), her silver hair sticking out like spikes, and her attendant AR menagerie of three-headed snakes, pink cats and Rodney the unicorn bounding around her. Rainbows spring up behind her so vividly that I have to take out my earring or I’ll end up with a migraine.
‘You look shite,’ she says. ‘Who’s this? Client? He doesn’t seem pervy enough, guess you can’t tell by appearances. Hey, I have some great ideas for cashing in on this publicity rush, my brain has been fizzing and popping like a— Watchoo staring at, mate? Didn’t you ever see a grown woman with a pet unicorn before? Watch out, the horn is sharp and you’ll feel it even if there are no visible injuries. Just ask that copper from Swansea who tried to— What? Horse, stop poking me.’
‘Roman, this is my friend Shandy. Shandy, this is Roman. He’s a consultant with the Met.’
Roman gives me the most pathetically grateful look, presumably for introducing him as if he has a real job. I don’t big him up to Shandy for his benefit, but to spare myself from having to listen to her stream of insults if she should find out he’s from the Dream Police and operates part-time out of a kebab shop.
‘Rodney, leave the nice constable alone,’ Shandy says to her AR unicorn.
I can no longer see Rodney, but Roman is looking more relaxed so I can only assume that Shandy’s AR has ceased menacing him. Rodney’s job is to keep Shandy safe: you know, prevent her from getting mugged/falling in the Thames/stepping in front of a bus. Since Shandy literally has her head in the Cloud all day and doesn’t see the so-called real world very well, Rodney is even deductible as a business expense.
‘What publicity is this?’ Roman asks lightly.
Shandy suddenly finds she has nothing to say and rummages in her bag as if searching for a response.
‘Apparently my dreamhacking business got leaked on social media in connection with Mel’s death,’ I tell him.
His eyes roll up as he quickly Googles.
‘Melodie’s death is trending, no less.’
‘I didn’t leak it,’ Shandy blurts. ‘And Charlie couldn’t have. It’s not like we’re trying to capitalize on Mel’s death, not for one second. It’s just Charlie’s luck. She always lands on her feet. Although I do say, love, you look as if you landed on your head.’
I wince, thinking of Melodie. Also: I can’t look that bad. Can I?
‘What about O, your so-called business associate?’
I shrug. ‘She does whatever she wants, you’d have to know her to understand.’
Wish I hadn’t said that, because an instant later he cheerily asks, ‘Can I meet her?’ with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels, looking really happy with himself.
In unison, Shandy and I say, ‘No.’
‘But she lives right here with you, doesn’t she, Charlie? So couldn’t I just—’
‘Roman,’ says Shandy, ‘why don’t you come with us? We’ll get coffee and you can tell us about life as a copper in the Big Smoke.’
Roman looks at Shandy like she’s barmy but doesn’t resist as we each take one of his arms and between us escort him away from O’s building, for all the world as if we are the police and he the civilian. I’m not even sure why we both react that way. Some deep instinct tells me to keep Roman away from O, and I don’t question it. At least, not right now, I don’t.
Oneric Crime
‘First off,’ Roman says, ‘Melodie’s parents have flown over. Her mum has asked to meet you, if you’re available.’
‘Me?’ My voice comes out as a squeak.
‘It’s nothing formal, she just feels, since you were the last person to see her alive— No, I don’t mean that she blames you, Charlotte. I think she’s simply trying to wrap her head around the fact that her daughter was having psychological problems. Apparently Melodie didn’t confide such things in her family.’
‘I guess . . . I—’
Shandy kicks me under the table.
‘Don’t be such a weed,’ she says. ‘Of course you have to go. We can get a drink after if you want.’
I wipe away tears, looking anywhere but at either of them. ‘OK, then.’
Shandy turns to Roman. ‘Let’s just think about it,’ she begins, licking cappuccino foam off her fire-engine-red lips. ‘Mel said she attracted stalkers. Do you know if she ever had to get a restraining order? Do we know any of their identities? That would be the first place to look.’
‘I’m already on it.’ But Roman’s eyes move subtly as he makes notes to himself. ‘While we’re at it, what about you, Charlie? Is there anyone with a grudge against you? You used to do ASMR publicly. That kind of thing must attract a fair amount of unwanted attention from people who still think it’s porn.’
Annoyingly, my face heats up. ‘There are always negative comments, but I’m careful with my identity. That’s one of the reasons why I don’t show my face or give personal details.’
‘Fair enough.’ His fingers are tapping on the table, typing notes. I notice that even though he’s out of condition, he has thick, muscular hands that look like they’ve done physical work. Not all spidery like your typical uni student. ‘Still, if you have a record of anyone you remember as being a problem, send it to me. Worth chasing up.’
‘I don’t see why. This is about Mel, not about me.’
‘Maybe,’ Roman says. ‘But given that your shingle is out there with Dreamhacker on it and you and Antonio had a relationship, it’s not beyond imagining that someone was using Melodie to lure you in.’
He looks straight at me while he says that, his pale green eyes gleaming a warning. Hell, he’s serious now.
‘That’s sick. All of it is sick.’ I don’t want to deal with it. I yawn.
Shandy calls up my channel on Spacetime, and judging by Roman’s reaction she’s included him in the privacy lock. My subscribers are still climbing. Lots of comments, too.
Roman reads
aloud, ‘ “Thought your tissue-paper sonata was great. The leaf-crunching one was maybe a little baroque. Too much binaural. I prefer the ones where it sounds totally natural. My favourite is Nana’s Kitchen, where it sounds like someone is bustling around cooking and cleaning. That one knocks me out every time. Would you do a woodworking video? Like, hand-carving? Maybe with some gentle sanding?” ’
Roman is shaking his head. ‘See what I mean about porn? Sorry, only kidding. So tell me, why is your channel called Mariana’s Trench Coat?’
‘When I was little and couldn’t sleep, I’d listen to this old-school ASMRtist on YouTube called Deep Ocean of Sound. I modelled myself on him: no images, no personal involvement, just the pure acoustic experience. So the Marianas Trench is the deepest part of the ocean, right?’
‘But yours says “trench coat”.’
‘Yeah. Cos I’m like a spy, nobody knows who I am, get it? People write to me calling me Mariana.’
Roman shakes his head.
‘It’s not sad. Stop shaking your head. You just don’t get it.’
‘Too deep for me . . . bazinga?’
Shandy leans over the table and says, ‘I’d like to know how you can claim to work in cybercrime when you’re not even up to speed with what people are actually using the platforms for.’
She has a point, but he ignores her and turns his attention to me.
‘The Dream City that Melodie described. I wanted to ask more about it in the interview but Donato doesn’t let me go off-piste. Is there such a thing? Where does it exist? Who or what has created it? These are the questions that interest me.’
‘You sound more like a philosopher than a cop.’
He laughs. ‘I’m really not a cop. I’m a kind of scientist.’
‘First you were the Dream Police, now you’re a kind-of scientist? Why do you operate out of a kebab shop?’
‘What if I told you, Charlie, that we suspect there has been a dream underworld for years?’
‘Who is we? And why?’
‘Why, because it flows naturally from the implications of the technology. BigSky lets people construct consensual realities. Part of that building process means sharing information about neural activity so that all the users can sync up in more or less the same virtual space. If you have all that information about someone’s patterns, it’s not a big leap to decode them and translate them into your own terms.’
Sweet Dreams Page 13