by Delaney, JP
Mission Street seems different—cleaner, smarter than it used to be; there’s no sign of the guy, brain fried on crack, who used to drag an electric toaster around by its cord and talk to it as if it were a pet. But the phone shop’s still there, next to the Korean restaurant, its tiny window piled high with phones and SIM packs. The handwritten sign is still there too, almost crowded out by IPHONES JAILBROKEN and an illuminated dot-matrix sign flashing LAPTOP REPAIRS.
Inside the shop a nerdy hipster with an elaborate beard leans over the counter, carefully picking a broken screen out of a phone with tweezers.
“Hi,” you say, a little nervously.
“With you in a sec,” he says without looking up.
You wait for him to finish. He has a mass of very curly black hair. You find yourself gazing at it, fascinated by the way it moves.
“How can I help?” he says at last, pushing the phone to one side.
“It’s this.” You produce the iPad. “I’ve forgotten the passcode.”
He takes it. “Sure you didn’t steal it?”
“Of course not. It’s mine.” You don’t seem to be able to blush, which is good.
“Just kidding.” He presses the POWER button and looks at the screen. “Why don’t you restore it from the backup?”
“I forgot to set a backup,” you say lamely.
“Hmm.” You can tell he doesn’t believe you. “Well, if it is yours, there’s a way of getting access to some of the apps.”
He presses the HOME button. For a moment nothing happens. Then an electronic voice says, “What can I help you with?”
“Siri, open the dangle-dally app,” the young man says.
“You don’t seem to have an app named dangle-dally. We could see if the App Store has it,” Siri says helpfully.
“Sure, let’s do that.”
As if by magic, the App Store screen appears. The young man taps the button again, and there’s the home page.
“That’s amazing…What was that you just downloaded?”
“Nothing. Just a nonexistent application to fool Siri.” He looks at the screen again and frowns. “Which is not to say your problems are over. This iPad’s been wiped. Those are just the default apps you’re seeing there.”
“Oh,” you say, disappointed. “Isn’t there anything else we can try?”
“I could run a recovery program. It’ll take at least twenty-four hours, though. Come back in a couple of days and we’ll see what we’ve got.”
You don’t like leaving the iPad, but you don’t really have a choice. “Okay.” Reluctantly, you turn to go.
While you’ve been talking, a middle-aged couple has come into the shop. You’ve been vaguely aware of them whispering behind you, the woman’s voice rising in urgency. Now she says suddenly, “It is her. I’m going to ask.” Putting her hand on your arm, she says, “Excuse me, aren’t you Abbie Cullen-Scott?”
“Yes…Why?” you say, surprised.
“Oh my God! And you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“My goodness! And do you mind…I mean, it’s none of my business, but—what happened?”
“What do you mean?” Then you realize. They think you’re the old Abbie, somehow come back from the dead.
“I—well, I don’t actually remember…” you begin.
“You lost your memory!” She turns to her husband triumphantly. “You see? I told you. I always said it wasn’t him.”
“I thought you said it was.” Her husband barely sounds interested. He looks at the man behind the counter. “We’ve come for the Galaxy that got dropped in the tub.”
“No, I didn’t,” the woman insists. She turns back to you. “What caused it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t remember that, either,” her husband suggests.
“Let her answer, Steve,” the woman says sharply.
“Actually, your husband’s right,” you say. “I don’t remember anything about it—”
“But you’re here now!” the woman announces, as though it’s somehow her doing. “You’re back! And with your husband?”
“Honey…” her husband remonstrates, but the woman presses on.
“We signed the petition. Just so you know. He had so much support around here.”
You’re barely listening. It’s just occurred to you that public news of your so-called miraculous return might not fit in with Tim’s plans at all.
“There’s been a mistake. I’m not…” Suddenly the little shop seems terrifyingly claustrophobic. “Excuse me,” you say desperately, trying to push past them to the door.
“She isn’t well!” the woman exclaims. “Steve, call the police.”
“What with?” he says lugubriously. “You dropped my phone in the tub while you were playing Candy Crush.”
“We’re in a phone store!” the woman snaps. “Oh, I’ll do it.” She pulls a cellphone out of her pocket.
“Please, stay here,” she says to you as she dials 911. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Are you calling the police?” the young man behind the counter says incredulously. He starts taking phones from the shelves and dropping them into a box.
“You’ve got this all wrong,” you insist. “There’s really no need—” But the woman’s already talking to an operator, giving the address, saying they need to send a police car and isn’t it amazing, she’s found her, she’s found Abbie Cullen-Scott.
15
You’re standing there, wondering what to do, when your own phone rings. The caller ID says TIM.
“Where are you?” He sounds worried.
“At a phone repair shop.”
“Why? Is something wrong with your phone?”
Now’s hardly the moment to tell him about the iPad. “It was nothing, it’s sorted now. But some people saw me and they’ve called the police—”
“Don’t talk to the police,” he interrupts. “Do you hear me, Abbie? Get out of there. Go west one block, then take a right onto Bartlett—”
“How do you know it’s a right?” you say as you start walking.
“I can see you on Find My Phone. I got worried when you didn’t answer the house phone just now. Go quickly, will you?”
“Tim, I’m so sorry,” you say miserably. “You said not to go out.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Are you moving?”
“Yes. As fast as I can.” You look over your shoulder. The couple is following you, the woman still on her phone, the man lagging behind, embarrassed. In the distance you hear a siren.
“I think the police are coming,” you add. “What do I tell them?”
Tim sighs. “Tell them the truth. But Abbie—don’t believe everything they tell you, okay? I’ll come and get you.”
“Why? What might they tell me? Tim, what do you mean?”
“It’s complicated—”
“Abbie? Abbie Cullen-Scott?” A uniformed policewoman, short and stocky, absurdly overdressed, with as many bits of equipment hanging off her as a mountaineer, is touching your arm. “Mrs. Cullen-Scott, you need to come with us. We’ll get you looked after.”
FIVE
It was Darren’s turn to get Tim-lashed, and he was getting the whole nine yards.
“I wanted it seamless,” Tim yelled at him. “I wanted it immersive. And instead, you’ve brought me this garbage.”
“It will be seamless,” Darren said nervously. “It’s still under development.”
There was a pause, but only because Tim had taken a breath, as if he was genuinely startled, shocked even, by the idiocy of Darren’s response.
“I know it’s under development. That’s why I hired a developer. Except I didn’t, did I? I hired a third-rate bozo who doesn’t know development from diarrhea.
”
“I just don’t think what you’re asking for is possible—” Darren began.
And now it was our turn to draw in our collective breath, because we all saw that Darren had committed a terrible error. The statement he had just made—that he was being asked to do the impossible—never went down well with Tim in any case. Not for nothing did he have a framed quotation by Muhammad Ali on his wall, something to do with the word impossible not being a fact, just someone’s opinion. But more important, what Darren had just said was inconsistent with his own previous statement, that he would fix it in due course. He wasn’t the first to lose his nerve under a Tim-lashing, but we all knew he was about to get ripped apart for it.
Except Abbie didn’t know that. Abbie looked across at Tim and said, in a tone of genuine curiosity, “Why do you have to be so aggressive?”
Tim stared at her.
“Why don’t you try being nice for a change?” she went on. “It’s not as if it’s going to make the poor guy any more productive.”
We braced for the explosion. But it never came. Instead, in a voice so calm it was almost eerie, Tim said, “Actually, you’re wrong about that.”
“How am I wrong?”
“Take a look at the Journal of Experimental Psychology, volume forty-seven, issue six. The authors designed a study to look at the effects of different moods on creativity. People who are angry not only have more ideas more quickly, they also tend to have ideas that are judged more original by their peers.”
“That’s bullshit,” Abbie said disbelievingly.
Tim shook his head. “The results have been replicated several times. There’s a good one in the Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, volume thirty-four, number twelve. Subjects gave a short presentation that received either negative or positive feedback on a randomized basis. They were then asked to complete a creative task, which was evaluated by a group of experienced artists. Those who had been given harsh feedback significantly outperformed the other group. The higher and more unreasonable a leader’s standards are, the better people will perform.”
Abbie stared at him. To be honest, we all did.
“And that is why you shout at people?” she asked incredulously. “Because you think it makes them better workers?”
“No,” Tim replied. “I shout at them because I get frustrated. But I was curious to know why. So I did some research on it.” He pointed at her. “You’re angry now. That’s good. Maybe you’ll come up with a half-decent idea, instead of playing pool and distracting my employees.”
“You were the one who told me—” Abbie began furiously, but it was too late. Tim had already gone back into his office.
16
The cop’s male colleague drives, while she sits with you in the back. Neither says much, for which you’re grateful. Tim’s words are churning around in your head. What did he mean by Don’t believe everything they tell you?
You’re met at the station by a gray-haired man in plainclothes. He looks questioningly at the female cop, who shakes her head. “We haven’t discussed anything.”
“Good. Abbie, come with me.”
“I’m not—” You stop, still unsure how to put this.
“You’re not sure that’s who you are?” he says, guiding you toward an interview room. Over his shoulder, to the policewoman, he says, “FMO, please, Sandy. Full exam.”
“No, it’s—” Tell them the truth, Tim said. You take a deep breath. “It’s more complicated than that. I’m a robot.”
“You think you’re a robot,” he repeats. “Okay. In a short while a medical officer will be along to take a look at you. In the meantime, what shall I call you?”
He thinks you’re insane, you realize. He thinks you’re Abbie who’s had some kind of breakdown.
“My husband works in robotics,” you try to explain. “He built me.”
“That’s right,” the policeman says, nodding. “I know Tim. I’m Detective Ray Tanner. We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Abbie. But you’re here now, that’s the main thing.”
Despite the gentleness he’s trying to put into his voice, he sounds peeved. Almost as if you turning up has proved him wrong about something. Something important.
“No,” you say miserably. “You don’t understand. I don’t believe I’m a robot. I am a robot.”
Looking at his kindly, concerned face, you realize there’s only one way to convince him. You reach up behind your neck. You’ve touched the seam there many times, but you’ve never been brave enough to pull it all the way open, the way Tim did. Even the thought makes you feel ill.
“What are you doing?” Tanner says uneasily. “Abbie? Jesus Christ!”
You feel the same sucking sensation, the same coldness, as before, and then Detective Tanner has recoiled away from you, knocking over a chair in his astonishment.
17
Twenty minutes later the atmosphere is very different. The medical officer has given you a brief inspection and announced that you are far beyond her area of expertise. The IT officer, ditto. And now there are three people sitting across a table from you. Detective Tanner, a man in a gray suit who introduced himself as the deputy chief of investigations, and a female detective sergeant.
“But why?” the deputy chief wants to know. “What was the purpose of building you?”
You shrug. “Emotional support.”
“Or to fool people into thinking that the real Abbie had returned alive and well?” Tanner suggests.
His comment is directed to the deputy chief, not you, but you shake your head firmly. “Of course not.”
“If the people who found her had put it on Twitter instead of calling us, who knows what story might have gone around,” Tanner says, still to the deputy chief. “He’s toying with us. Trying to make it look like we got it all wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong?” you say, puzzled. “Wrong about what?”
The deputy chief looks at you. “You have no knowledge of that?”
“Knowledge of what?”
“That four years ago, Tim Scott was put on trial for the murder of his wife, Abigail.”
You stare at him, stunned. A long moment passes. You can’t believe it—surely Tim would never have kept something as important as this from you. But then—clunk!—you feel it, a cascade of images tumbling into your mind. Newspaper reports, video feeds, tweets and blogs and snatched paparazzi images. Tim, gaunt and unshaven, being led toward some courtroom doors—
“Should I have a lawyer?” you say faintly.
The deputy chief looks at Tanner, who shrugs. “Legally speaking, we believe she’s computer equipment. She certainly has no rights.”
“Well, I’m not saying anything else,” you tell them defiantly. “Not until my husband gets here.”
Tanner leans forward. “You call him your husband. But he isn’t, is he? You’re not married to him. You can’t be—you’re a machine. Before you feel sorry for him, feel sorry for her. For Abbie. And if you know anything that can help us solve her disappearance, even at this late stage, tell us. For her sake.”
Disappearance. The word, with all its ramifications, echoes around your head.
The silence is broken by a knock on the interview room door. Tanner sighs in frustration. “Enter.”
A policewoman comes in and whispers something in his ear. “Tim Scott’s here,” he says reluctantly. “With a lawyer. We’re going to have to let her go.”
Relieved, you get to your feet. “I’ll walk you out,” he adds.
At the door he stands back to let you go before him. As you pass, he suddenly leans forward, blocking your way with his arm, forcing you to stop. Speaking in a low voice, so only you can hear, he says, “I spent twelve months putting together a case against Tim Scott. You tell him from me, I’m not going to give up just because he’s built himself a B
arbie doll.”
18
“I understand now why you didn’t want me going out. But you might have told me the reason.”
Finally, you’re back at Dolores Street together, and alone. Tim grimaces. “I know. I’m sorry, Abbie. It wasn’t that I expected you to stay cooped up here forever. I just didn’t know how to tell you. These past two weeks have been such a special time for me. A second honeymoon, almost. And I suppose I was worried you might react the way everyone else did, back then. I thought if I could just reestablish the connection between us first…and then somehow it was easier to keep putting it off.”
“I understand,” you say, although understanding isn’t the same as forgiving him, not quite. “But Tim, what happened? You have to tell me now. The police used the word murder but they also talked about my disappearance.” You hesitate. “And what made them think you could have had something to do with it?”
He nods decisively. “You’re right. Let’s talk.”
* * *
—
It was a surfing accident, he says. He stresses the word accident.
“There’d been a storm—high winds and rain. You were at the beach house on your own, working on a new project. I stayed here in the city, with Danny. The whole point was to give you some time alone, to let you rediscover your spark.”
Even now, five years later, you can tell how difficult this is for him. He stares into space, his eyes unseeing. Fixed on memories that are still almost too much to bear.
“You often went night-surfing. Even in poor conditions—you found high waves exhilarating, and you were easily skilled enough to cope with them. You said it cleared your head when you’d been working. There were plenty of people who could confirm that. It was only later that the coverage got so…I kept some of the reports, actually.”
He gets up and comes back with a USB stick that he plugs into his laptop. When he turns the screen toward you, you see he’s put together a kind of digital scrapbook, a slideshow of cuttings and screengrabs from news feeds and social media. He sits back and watches intently as you click through them, scouring your face for signs of your response.