by Stuart Evers
But then Sunday – there were people outside the small church, their clenched fists and clutched Bibles – she linked him walk to another small apartment, a man opening the door, Collins’ father, clearly, and the man inviting him inside. At the moment of the father opening the door, Deanna felt something shimmer. Not the basso crescendo when someone’s emotions are fully engaged; something more like a click. An errant pulse, perhaps. She linked David having a drink, eating at the table, then getting up to leave. The next week was exactly the same. The streets, the cafe, the office, the pool, the apartment, and then the Sunday visit; the same every week.
The father, Paul, opens the door. David experiences the shimmer and walks inside. They enter the kitchen and Paul pours a glass of beer for them both. A shepherd’s pie browns under the grill.
‘So, how are you, son?’ Paul says. ‘Winning?’
‘Fine, Dad. You?’
‘Fine.’
They say the same thing each week. The same three lines and then David drinks from his beer, as though grace has been said. Lunch is served. They talk. About their week, their work. David loads the dishwasher while Paul wipes down the surfaces and table. They shake hands at the door, a handshake that turns into an awkward embrace.
Deanna had promised herself she would only go through the profile and experiences. She had been clear with herself. She would not waste her day, a day to herself. She would not stay on the uLINK. She would do something else instead. Read a book. Take a long bath. Call her father. But she clicked the live link anyway. Without thought or self-justification.
David Collins was standing in the kitchenette. She linked him as he replaced the cracked screen and processor board of a mobile telephone. It was painstaking, delicate work. She linked him holding his breath and releasing it. The repair took almost two hours, his fingers thin and the screwdriver tiny, like a jeweller’s. She linked him complete the job, put the telephone in a box and turn out the light. She linked his every thought as he walked through to the small bathroom.
I have enough food for the next five days. The recycling must go out tomorrow. My swimming shorts are drying in the bathroom.
Deanna linked him until the feed went down. She went to bed and slept as long and as dreamlessly as David Collins.
Her father was dressed as though their lunch was important: slacks and a pressed shirt, polished shoes. Deanna was there already, which surprised him, and she waved – she had practised this – across the restaurant. He waved back and weaved between the round tables. She’d chosen the place because they’d once eaten there, years before, and she remembered the food was good, or the atmosphere was good, or was it the chairs? Something about it, whatever it was, was good. And sitting there in the late afternoon sunshine, crunching ice from her iced water, a thick cloth napkin and two perfectly transparent wine glasses in front of her, something about it was good.
‘Well hello,’ her father said, leaning down to kiss her. ‘You look wonderful.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I was trying to remember, though. When was it we came here? The two of us?’
‘You and me?’ he said, sitting down and placing his hands flat on the table. ‘Just the two of us?’
She nodded. He picked up the menu, the paper rolled into a horn.
‘I don’t remember. Years ago, must be.’
‘I remember there was something good about it. Something was good.’
‘The fish is good here,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s what it is?’
‘Possibly,’ she said, though it didn’t seem likely. It occurred to her that her father had no recollection of eating in the restaurant with her. She wondered what it would be like to link her father. What memories he would have, and how many would cross-check with hers. Her father smiled and held his hand out across the cream tablecloth, past the floral centrepiece.
‘I just wanted to say—’
‘Don’t, Dad,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to. Let’s just have lunch. Just the two of us, a nice lunch. I’m going to have wine. Treat myself.’
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘so will I.’
He talked of his job – he worked for the land registry – of lunches he had eaten, of the people from her past he had seen. She was encouraging and kept the conversation going. They shared a starter.
‘I’ve met someone,’ she said, halfway through her main course salad, interrupting her father’s recounting of an intra-office feud.
‘You have?’ he said. He put down his cutlery, took a small sip of wine.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Well, that’s great, love. Great. What’s his name? How did you meet?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘I just wanted you to know. I just wanted to tell you.’
‘You look happy,’ he said picking up his knife and fork, his face slightly pinked from the wine and excitement. ‘I saw that as I came in through the door. You look . . . contented. I can’t tell you how happy I am for you.’
Deanna swilled the wine in her glass and looked at her father. Steely hair brushed carefully to a parting, an open-neck shirt, a small shaving nick under his left earlobe. She had expected to feel something as she told him. Happiness at the joy she’d provoked. Excitement at the sharing of a confidence. A cruel sense of deception. But she hadn’t. What she’d said had been a simple statement of the facts. Or at least an iteration of the facts. Her father’s reaction was not important to her. She might as well have been David Collins telling his father there was a buyer for a Dyson vacuum cleaner. The delivery was the same. The same distinct ambivalence.
Her father ordered another glass of wine. She ordered one too but did not drink it. She let him talk. She let him describe meeting her mother, the old story coming out again. His long, sorry romantic tale. She let him talk. She let him get to the tears in his eyes, let him wipe them on the thick cloth napkin, let him excuse himself to the bathroom.
Deanna told everyone she was going to the south of France. They wished her a pleasant holiday. They said it was a good thing to get away. She nodded and locked the door to her apartment and spent the next fourteen days with David Collins. Going to work, swimming, reading manuals, eating at the cafe, taking out the rubbish. She woke with him and slept with him, their two bodies in constant contact. She noticed a scar on his inside leg for the first time. She linked him change his energy supplier and buy a new pair of work trousers. She linked him talk to his father on the telephone and go to his father’s house for lunch on Sundays.
That last Sunday, a message popped up on the interface. David Collins has moved from basic rate to premium level one. Please add credits to continue. She added the credits and continued. She linked him in his apartment, showering, the same as every other day. Soon she was leaving his apartment and walking to his father’s house. But Deanna was unsettled by the message. The uLINK people had clearly seen she was hooked. They were going to extort her. They were going to punish her for loving David Collins.
David’s father opened the door. David experienced the shimmer and walked inside. They went into the kitchen and Paul poured a glass of beer for them both. A shepherd’s pie browned under the grill.
‘So, how are you, son?’ Paul said. ‘Winning?’
‘Fine, Dad. You?’
‘Fine.’
Deanna linked him watch his father wipe the surface and table with a dishcloth. Usually he did this after the two men had eaten. The counter tops always stayed dotted with potato and meat until after lunch. She linked David watch Paul drink half of his beer in one lunge. She noticed Paul had also forgotten to put the ketchup and brown sauce on the otherwise-laid table. David took a sip of beer.
‘I’ve got a buyer for the Corby Trouser Press,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ his father said. ‘What?’
‘The Corby Trouser Press. I’ve got a buyer for it. Three grand, I think. Maybe more, I don’t know.’
‘That’s great, son,’ he said. ‘Great.’
Da
vid sat down at the table as usual. But Paul was fussing and knocked a tray to the floor. It made a loud clang as it hit the tiles.
‘Is something burning?’ David said and pointed at the oven.
‘Oh shit,’ Paul said and wrapped his hands in oven gloves. He opened the oven door and smoke stole out. When it cleared, the top of the shepherd’s pie was sooty black. The smoke alarm was triggered. The noise was hectic. Paul stood on a chair and disarmed it and stood looking down on David. Deanna noticed David’s heart rate was marginally higher, felt it rise and fall back to normal.
‘Sometimes, Dad,’ David said, ‘you really are a bloody idiot.’
Paul got down from the chair. He stood with his hands gripping the kitchen sink. He was breathing heavily.
‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ Paul said. ‘Don’t you dare talk to me that way in my own house.’
‘Don’t act like a bloody idiot in your own house, then,’ David said. He got up and put on his jacket.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’ Paul said. ‘We haven’t had our lunch yet.’
‘I’m not eating that shit,’ David said. He picked up his coat and walked out the door.
Deanna dropped the link. David Collins had been calm throughout. Calm and detached and yet. She saw the anger in Paul. The rage as David left. She went to the bathroom and was sick. She ran water and washed her face. She went back to the uLINK and stared at the interface. She was frightened to link him again. Even if David now stayed calm, she was not sure she could take it. She sat at the uLINK all afternoon, but did not connect. She just sat there, looking at the interface. For a long time, she couldn’t think of anything to do that didn’t involve David Collins.
Eventually she went for a walk, out into the communal gardens. She had a flavoured water sitting out on a cafe’s terrace, and watched lovers and friends walk dogs or stroll towards the river. Everyone was talking. At all the tables around her, people talking and laughing. She left her drink and headed home.
She had a long bath. She dried herself and without thinking went straight to the uLINK. She accessed the saved experiences and selected a series of Sundays. Iterations without a hint of drama or conflict. David Collins has moved from premium level one to premium level two, the interface said. Please add credits to continue.
During the week she was struck down by a migraine, a migraine that lasted six days. A week of her bed, a week of sweats and shivers, a week without him. She told herself it was her body’s way of telling her to stop. A side-effect of the linking. She hated her body. She hated what her mind was telling her.
By Sunday she was better, the pain lifting like morning mist. She woke early, before sunrise, and showered and washed her hair, exfoliated, toned, moisturized. She made coffee and drank it watching the sunrise. Then she turned on the interface. David Collins has moved from premium level two to premium level twelve, the interface said. Please add credits to continue.
At the height of her fame, Shirelle had made it to premium level twenty. Deanna didn’t know how many levels there were, but that was the highest she had ever seen. She looked at the interface again. Premium level twelve. She swore vengeance on the uLINK people. They were bleeding her dry. She’d heard about people running up debts they couldn’t pay, but couldn’t imagine how. The terms and conditions were clear.
3.17 – The cost of an individual link can increase due to demand, either by an individual’s personal usage or by increased interest from the uLINK community. You will always be informed of any change in pricing for a link.
Even after a week without him, they knew she would pay. She added the credits and linked him as he woke, as he walked from bedroom to bathroom.
It was a typical Sunday. She linked him take a shower, read a manual, walk to his father’s house. Paul greeted him as usual, but paused before closing the door.
‘So, how are you, son?’ Paul said. ‘Winning?’
‘Fine, Dad. You?’
‘Fine.’
She linked David drink his beer. There was a long and static silence. Paul drank his beer. She linked David Collins sitting at the table.
‘If it’s money,’ David said, ‘you know the answer.’
‘They fired me,’ he said. ‘Someone had it in for me. That bastard Murphy. He’s had it in for me since I got there. They said I didn’t follow procedure. They said that I was sloppy. Me! That the team wasn’t performing as projected. He had it in for me from the start, from the beginning—’
‘Someone’s always got it in for you. Always. It’s never you, is it?’
‘You weren’t there. You didn’t see what he—’
‘The answer is no. How many times no. How much do you owe me already? Tell me. How much?’
Paul turned to the stove. He took the pie from the oven and set it on a trivet to cool.
‘And you call yourself a son?’ he said.
‘I don’t call myself anything,’ David said.
All week she linked David Collins and for the whole week his heartbeat barely rose from normal. He reconstructed several new machines, of which he sold two without pleasure. He ate his dinner at the cafe and swam in the municipal pool.
The following Sunday, Deanna agreed to meet her father at the same restaurant as before. They sat at the same table. Her father was late arriving. He was dressed with precision.
‘Well hello,’ her father said, leaning down to kiss her. ‘How are you?’
She saw concern on his face.
‘Is everything okay?’ he said.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘I was just trying to remember what I had the last time we were here.’
‘The fish is good here,’ he said. ‘You probably had the fish.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Probably.’
They talked politely. Him most of all. He talked of his job, of lunches he had eaten, of the people from her past he had seen. She kept the conversation going. They shared a starter.
‘We split up,’ she said. ‘That man and me.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘I could tell something was up. I could just tell. From across the room.’
‘I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about it. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.’
She had not known it was over until that moment. She expected to feel something afterwards. Guilt, perhaps, remorse, a sense of mourning. But no. A statement of fact. No more.
Her father ordered another glass of wine and she put her hand over her glass. She let him talk. She let him describe losing her mother, the old story coming out again. His long, sorry, romantic tale.
There were tables north, south, east and west of her: north and south with four diners; east and west with two. Her father absent, she toyed with her napkin and heard someone say the word Collins. She heard it again from the west and then from the north, from the south and then the east.
. . . he can’t survive . . .
. . . but surely someone would do something . . .
. . . police can’t, not without proof . . .
. . . you sort of can’t blame him . . .
. . . he’s a monster, if I raised a child like that . . .
. . . but I hear the father’s involved . . .
. . . he started the rumours . . .
. . . to get the cash, to get his hands on his cash . . .
. . . it’s clever when you think, really, getting all those followers for something that might not happen . . .
. . . it will happen . . .
. . . I find it so sad . . .
. . . I’d ban it. I’ve said it before . . .
. . . we’ll be home, don’t worry . . .
. . . they say it’s the ultimate trip . . .
. . . it’s the hype I can’t stand . . .
Deanna stood. She was still holding the napkin as she walked out of the restaurant.
Shirelle had once said to Declan that you feel the weight of the links. Feel them at the back of your neck, like bees: like a sw
arm of bees. She scratched the back of her neck as she told him this. Scratched and said: ‘You can feel the pressure. Like they’re pushing and pushing until your whole head’s just filled with bees. Buzzing with them.’ Deanna had thought it was just the drugs. But she could link it in David Collins too.
Deanna linked David Collins walk the streets to his father’s house. She linked him scratch the back of his neck, linked the pressure where once there was none. His heart rate was up and she could feel the agitation, the agitation in his arms and legs. She linked his rangy, erratic steps and saw his father’s face at the door. Hair greyer. Face more ashen. His arms open: come on in.
She linked the smell of the shepherd’s pie. They all linked it. She linked him hear his father say, ‘So, how are you, son? Winning?’ and she linked David reply. They all linked it.
She linked him drink his beer. They all linked it. She linked him sit down at the table and eat his pie. She linked him loading the dishwasher. They all linked it.
She linked the kitchen knife entering his gut. The twist of it. The blade cold and the flesh burning. She linked him looking at his father’s face, blood on it, blood everywhere. Arterial spray. She linked the blade being removed, and then entering the gut again. She linked David Collins bleeding, the blood pooling on the floor. They linked the pain, the astonishing pain. They all linked it.