by Chris Dolley
And where were his parents?
And did that explain the changes to his surroundings? The houses that became shops overnight, the roads that were built in a day, the offices that migrated across London?
Was the program slowly breaking down? Not an unravelling thread but a program slowly degrading?
Graham found himself nodding. Annalise was right. People were disappearing. More than usual recently. The world was becoming less stable.
"And how else can we talk to each other? The Annalises, I mean. We're not crazy and we're not mediums. But we can communicate. We know there's something else beyond this existence.
"And Kevin Alexander knows it too. He's gotta be some kind of resistance leader, him and Gary Mitchison and the others. They're working through the Annalises to talk to each other and organize some kinda rebellion. A way to free us from this prison and you're the key. Which is why your life's in danger. You can get us out."
Her phone rang. "Shit!" she said, fumbling with her handbag and extracting her mobile.
"Hello."
"Dinner tonight. Usual place. Eight o'clock."
The line went dead, Annalise switched off the phone and turned towards Graham.
"I've gotta go. It's Kevin. He's got another message to send. Look, I'll meet you here tomorrow at one."
"I can't. I go to Green Park on Tuesdays."
She looked at him incredulously.
"If I changed my routine they'd get suspicious. They'll be suspicious enough after tonight."
"Okay, makes sense. Is that the park you went to on Friday?"
He nodded.
"Okay, you sit on your usual bench and I'll be the girl behind you, sunbathing on the grass."
"Won't they recognize you?"
"Trust me, no one will be looking at my face."
Fourteen
Graham watched her leave, standing rooted to the path as she cut across the grass. His meetings with Annalise always left him feeling slow and laden with questions that he knew he should have asked but had never found the opportunity. She never gave him a chance. He'd have a question ready and she'd knock it out of his head by saying something completely unexpected. And while he was still grappling with the ramifications of what she'd said, she'd be several sentences into the next story.
He'd never get the hang of conversation.
He sighed and watched a child run in front of Annalise, stumble and fall down. Annalise stopped and helped the little girl to her feet. The girl ran off, tottering on unsteady legs back to her mother.
There was something so natural about that scene and yet . . . if Annalise was right, none of that had actually happened. The girl, the mother, Annalise—all computer generated.
How could anyone tell?
Was the little girl strapped inside one of Annalise's VR chambers being forced to live out her life in a fictional world of someone else's making? Or was she a fabrication, a prop, a slice of background color generated by a computer subroutine to make the park more believable?
Was there enough room inside Annalise's VR chambers to house the entire population of the world? Surely not. Which meant that most of the people he saw—people he'd worked with for years—were nothing more than computer-generated fabrications.
Was there a way of telling who had a mind and who was controlled by a line of code? Would they think differently, act differently?
Or was Annalise wrong? Was everything around him real? The lake, the trees, the people?
How could anyone possibly tell?
* * *
He walked back to the station confused. Everything suddenly looked so artificial, the people, the cars, the buildings. Could he really have missed so much? A man who spent his life observing his surroundings, who ticked off landmarks and counted the paces between lampposts?
He boarded his train. Could he have been wrong all this time? Was his life of ritual and repetition having no effect on the fabric of the world?
He shook his head. He had made a difference. He was sure of it. He remembered what it had been like before. But could he trust his memory? Were the horrors of his childhood real?
He leaned back in his seat and rubbed his eyes. He used to be so sure of everything. His view of the world had barely changed in twenty-five years. The world was an unstable place—imperfectly formed and still evolving—old threads unravelling to make room for the new. A subject so complex to understand and so unsettling to contemplate that people looked the other way.
Had he been wrong all this time? Should he have questioned more?
And what would have come of those questions? More ridicule, more anger, more isolation?
He shook his head. This was getting him nowhere. There were probably people waiting for him at Harrow, wondering where he'd been for the last hour.
A thought that worried him for the rest of the journey. He'd look guilty, he knew he would. The moment he stepped off the train, he'd have "clandestine meeting" written all over his face. They'd see it, push him into the back of a big black car and torture him. Real or virtual, the pain would be the same.
He had to have a story, a reason for the missing hour. Something to make him feel less guilty.
Shopping! He could have gone shopping! Maybe broke his journey at Oxford Circus, walked around the shops, bought something small, something that would fit inside his pocket, no need for a bag.
He thought himself into the part. He could almost feel the imaginary object in his pocket.
The train braked hard and a platform streaked by the carriage windows, streaks of color gradually forming into people and kiosks, waste bins and brick.
Graham stepped out, patting at his pocket. He was pleased with his purchase. It was something he'd been planning for weeks. A facade he maintained all the way to his front gate.
When it hit him. Even if they bought the story about the missing hour, there were still the bugs. He'd removed them from his house. The two cameras would have shown it all.
His imaginary object dissolved in his pocket.
He latched the gate and hurried towards his door. His key danced on the metal scratch plate of the lock. Nerves. His hand wouldn't stay still. Even Annalise Twelve had been taken away from him. Which house would she be watching? His house? Or would it be like Rosie's Bar, would she see another house altogether?
He clasped his right hand with his left, steadied, found the lock, turned—left, right, left, right, breathe and count, turn and push. The door shuddered and flew back. Graham followed, reached for the edge of the door and swung it shut behind him.
He fell back against the door, closed his eyes and tried not to think.
Seconds passed, he listened to the slow tick-tock of his lounge clock. He counted each beat, then every other beat, synchronizing his breathing to the clock, lengthening the interval as his breathing slowed.
He opened his eyes.
He'd check each room, see if anyone had been inside. Maybe he could leave them a note, explain how it had all been a terrible mistake, he wasn't a key, he didn't need to be watched. He was Graham Smith. That was all.
He stepped into the lounge.
And stopped.
His jigsaw had gone. He stared down at the bare stretch of carpet. Had it unravelled? He had met a different Annalise today. Did his home change every time she did? Had their lives become so inextricably linked that they shared the same thread? Were they unravelling together, snagged in a long succession of aftershocks? Or did they share the same corrupt segment of program memory, a segment that was forever being reset?
His eyes strayed to where the camera had been. It was back. Same place, same disguise.
He looked away quickly.
Maybe on this new thread, he hadn't found the bugs. A thought which took him into the kitchen and the far left-hand corner of the kitchen table. He swung down to take a look. It was back. A small metal button pressed into the wooden corner brace of the table.
He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. Sunday's bug
hunt had unravelled away. No one would plant identical bugs in identical places the day after they'd all been discovered. He was free again! In this new reality he hadn't removed any devices. The only thing he was guilty of was disappearing for an hour on the way home from work.
And if he left all the recording devices where they were, they'd soon realize he was no threat. They'd leave him alone. They were bound to, he was harmless.
He put the kettle on while he made a cursory inspection of the rest of the house, opening windows in every room while taking note of anything that had changed. Little had, other than every ornament being misaligned.
He hovered as usual by his parent's door. Tapping on the door just in case. Waiting those extra few seconds for an answer that, deep down, he knew would never come.
It didn't.
He leaned over his mother's dresser to open the window and wondered if knocking on the door had been a mistake. The room was bugged, what would people make of him knocking on a door to a room that was supposedly empty? Would they think he was harboring someone?
He looked down at the dresser, his mother's hairbrush was half an inch further to the right than it should have been. He nudged it back into position and shook his head. What possible interest could his mother's hairbrush hold?
He felt angry. The thought of a stranger picking through his mother's things, looking through her wardrobe, touching her clothes. He shivered. He'd have to spring-clean the whole house—every room, top to bottom. He wouldn't be able to settle down otherwise.
Fifteen
Graham was back at work the next day, pushing the mail trolley along the rear corridor of the fifth floor. He was alone. The corridor empty, the office doors all closed. No muffled sounds of conversation, no tap of a keyboard or hum of a printer. The only sound an intermittent squeak from one of the trolley wheels.
Strange, he thought. To be surrounded by so many people and yet to hear so little. Was it always this quiet? Or had he become oversensitized since yesterday's meeting with Annalise?
He stopped by a door and listened.
Nothing. Absolute silence. Not even the hum of traffic from the road outside.
His fingers rested lightly on the door handle. He turned it slowly, easing the door open. A phone rang on the desk in the near corner. Graham didn't recognize the man who answered it. He smiled in Graham's direction. Graham forced a smile back and quickly cleared the out-tray.
As he closed the door everything went quiet again. Were the doors soundproof? He was sure they weren't. Had the phone conversation ended the moment Graham closed the door? A phone that hadn't rung until the moment he'd opened the door?
Was this what it was like being inside a virtual world? Were all the rooms empty? Were they voids that only became real the moment he looked inside? Voids that suddenly had to be furnished and populated? Was it all like that? Westminster Street, London, the world—theatre scenery to be pulled out when needed?
His hand closed around the door handle again. If he threw it open now, would the program have time to react?
Slowly, he turned the handle . . . and then let go. He jumped over to the door opposite and threw that one open instead. The door flew back, further and faster than he'd intended. It banged against the wall and shuddered. He stared inside. The room was full of packing crates, empty desks and boxes. A phone sat on the floor. It hadn't been like this on Friday. All the rooms on this floor were occupied. Had he beaten the program? Had it been unable to flesh out the room in time? Forced to resort to this half measure?
"Excuse me," snapped a voice from behind.
Graham jumped. Frank Gledwood stood in the doorway, his arms full of files and his usual sneer on his lips. Graham stepped aside, pressing himself back against the open door.
"You can always help if you've nothing better to do."
Graham swallowed. Was this the program's revenge? Cross me and I'll make your life hell?
Frank let the files fall with a clatter on the nearest empty desk.
"Well, speak up, I haven't got all day."
Graham nodded reluctantly. Shenaz arrived, her arms weighed down by two bulging plastic bags. She rolled her eyes conspiratorially towards Graham before dumping them in the far corner. Kathy wasn't far behind, carrying a plastic crate overflowing with files and assorted stationery.
"So, this is our new room," Kathy said as she slid the crate into the center of the near desk. She turned to Frank who was hitching up his trousers while looking out the window at his new domain. "I thought you said this new job was important."
"It is," he said, still looking out the window, flexing his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side. "Believe me, this is just the start. From what I've heard this ParaDim section is going to be massive."
Sixteen
Graham checked his watch as he entered Green Park. Five past one—he was late. Twenty-five minutes helping Frank Gledwood had disrupted his morning schedule.
He hurried along the wide avenue of massive plane trees, peering ahead trying to catch sight of Annalise. He couldn't see her. His usual bench was empty and no one was on the grass nearby. He scanned the lawns beyond the trees: a few sunbathers, a few people sprawled in groups, some men playing football. No obvious sign of Annalise.
But now he got closer he could see there was something on the bench. He couldn't quite make it out, something flat. He walked faster. There were two things—a folded newspaper and a notice.
Wet paint, the notice read. He looked at the newspaper; was there a message inside? He bent down to pick it up.
"Don't look around. It's me."
Graham froze, his hand outstretched over the bench. Where was she this time? He could have sworn the voice came from behind the bench but that was impossible—no one was there.
"Pick up the 'wet paint' sign and sit down."
Graham obeyed, sweeping the park with his eyes as he did so. The only people nearby were three people on the path—a middle-aged couple and a young girl with a Walkman. He stared at the girl. She didn't look like Annalise.
"Pick up the paper and pretend to read, it'll mask your lips when you talk."
The girl's lips never moved. And the voice seemed to be coming up from the ground.
The young girl passed by to his right, the older couple to his left. Graham picked up the newspaper and carefully unfolded it, looking for some kind of microphone or loudspeaker. Nothing fell out.
"In case you're wondering—there's a baby monitor under the seat. Neat, huh? It's got a range of 150 feet. I'm sunning myself out here on the grass, talking into my very large hat."
"Can you hear me?" Graham pitched his voice just above a whisper.
"Hang on, I'll adjust the volume . . . try again."
"Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear. Sorry about last night but I had to fly. Kevin's found something important. Something to do with October 16, 1966."
"That's my birthday."
"October the sixteenth?"
He nodded.
"Are you still there?" she asked.
Graham remembered the baby monitor and felt stupid.
"Yes, I was born on October the sixteenth, 1966."
He was even more confused. What had his date of birth to do with anything?
"You think that might be the date when all this was created?" said Annalise. "And you're the key 'cause you were the first to be plugged in?"
Graham shrugged, "Did they have VR in the sixties?"
"Roswell was '47 and—" She broke off. "Best be quiet for a minute. There's a man walking towards you. Doesn't look like a tourist."
Graham turned a page of his newspaper and glanced to his right. The man looked like a businessman—smart suit, tie, shoes that shone. Graham slipped back behind the newspaper and waited.
"He's gone," said Annalise. "Didn't look like a spy but can't be too careful. Who can tell what the bad guys look like in a virtual world."
"Do you think everyone we see is trapped somewhere i
nside a VR chamber?"
"Doubt it. Maybe a few dozen per program. You, me, Kevin, Gary, a few others we haven't met yet."
"But why? And how?" He had so many questions—each fighting to be aired first. He shook his head, blinked and tried to order his thoughts. What baffled him the most? What didn't baffle him? It all seemed so improbable. Virtual worlds, keys, resonance waves, two hundred Annalises . . .
"Why are there two hundred of you?" he asked. "If Annalise Mercado's such an unusual name, how come there's two hundred of you strapped inside a VR chamber?"
"Good question. Way I see it, we're two hundred different people all playing the part of Annalise Mercado. And for some reason we can't access our real memories. I might not even be female. But when I'm in here—I'm Annalise One Eight Seven. It's the only thing that makes sense. Some of us have identical pasts—up to a point. We all have the same parents but Annalise Nineteen and me—we have the same aunts, uncles and cousins too. We lived in the same house, went to the same schools, had the same friends, the same experiences. Right up to the age of fourteen and then—wham—our lives diverged. I think that's when we were plugged into the system—Nineteen and me—we were given identical memories up to the age of fourteen and then let loose in the world."
"To what end?"
"No idea. I'm not even sure Kevin knows. But it has to be some kind of experiment. Maybe the CIA are using VR worlds for interrogation purposes. Maybe they're testing two hundred simulators to find the best way to break someone down."
"We're spies?"
"Or test subjects. Trust me, governments don't care about using their citizens when they're short of guinea pigs."
Was that why his home was bugged? Had he been a guinea pig all his life, people observing his every move?
"Or it might be aliens," continued Annalise, "setting up a VR lab so they can study us, tweak our environment and watch how we react to different situations. Gotta make more sense than those ridiculous medical probes."