No True Echo

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘I’m not saying that what we do isn’t important,’ protested Liphook. ‘It’s about me. I need to spread my wings.’

  Sergeant Copeland picked up the tea-stained application form. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t we give it one month? If you haven’t changed your mind after that I’ll give you a first-class recommendation for a transfer anywhere you want and I’ll try to drum up as much serious crime as I can during that time to keep you happy. Maybe I’ll even commit a few crimes and you could chase after me.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ said Liphook.

  ‘Don’t look so downhearted,’ said Sergeant Copeland. ‘As it happens I do have something that might tickle your fancy.’

  He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to Liphook. On it was a photograph of a smiling girl with short blond hair and green-blue eyes.

  ‘A missing person, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Her name is Lauren Bliss. She vanished from her London home the day before yesterday. Apparently no problems at home or school. Generally well behaved, works hard at her studies, but two days ago she upped and vanished. Hasn’t been seen since.’

  Liphook looked at the picture. ‘Any reason she would come here? We’re a long way from London.’

  ‘Her parents don’t know where she’s gone but apparently they came here on holiday last summer. They think she may have made a friend here. I’m afraid it’s all a bit vague but you never know.’

  ‘It does sound like a bit of a stretch.’

  ‘Ah, but as they say, if there are biscuits in the tin, there’s always the possibility of finding a chocolate one.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t follow.’

  ‘Where there’s possibility there is also hope, Liphook.’

  Melancholy and Despairing

  I didn’t get a chance to talk to Scarlett again that afternoon. By the time we were sitting down for English we had been stuck inside all day again, so no one was in the mood to listen to Cornish going on about Frankenstein.

  ‘Mary Shelley begins her story not at the beginning, but at the end,’ he said. ‘We are introduced to Frankenstein not as an innocent man, but as a man plagued by what he has done. He is … ’ Mr Cornish looked down at the page and read, ‘Melancholy and despairing.’ He repeated the words. ‘Melancholy and despairing. Why?’ He pointed at a girl called Hannah, who looked startled by his question.

  ‘Because he’s made a monster?’ she suggested.

  ‘Not good enough,’ stated Cornish. ‘It’s because he is living with the consequences of his actions. Victor Frankenstein is an enlightened man, an intelligent man, a scholar. He has no excuse of ignorance. Therefore he is forced to face the true horror of the terrible thing he has done. He is a prisoner of his own self judgment.’

  ‘I think it would be pretty cool to make a monster,’ said Angus.

  ‘Have you read the book yet, Angus?’ snapped Cornish.

  ‘No, but —’

  ‘I suggest you contain your opinions until you’ve read the actual words.’ Cornish slammed his book down on Angus’s table. ‘Mary Shelley’s masterpiece is a story that has permeated our world. It is impossible to come to it without some preconception of what it’s going to be about, but even a book that has been written can change. What do I mean by that? Anyone?’

  ‘You mean when the author redrafts it?’ said someone at the back.

  ‘No. I’m talking about how it changes when we read it. Words come to life under our scrutiny. That spark which Frankenstein uses to bring his monster to life is there at the moment a reader connects with a book.’

  ‘The words don’t change, though, do they?’ said a boy called Jamie.

  ‘Not the words but the world around them. That changes, and it is down to you to ensure it changes for the better, and not to accept your lot. I’m talking about fate. What do I mean by fate, Eddie?’

  ‘Er, it’s how things are going to happen in a certain way, no matter what you do,’ I said.

  ‘And do you believe in fate, Eddie?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘I mean, I think some things are meant to be.’ I realised I was staring at Scarlett and quickly looked away.

  ‘So you aren’t in control of your life, Eddie?’ Cornish asked. I was unsure why this was becoming all about me, and why he sounded so angry about it.

  ‘Perhaps Eddie means that there is a natural and correct course of events,’ said Scarlett.

  Cornish spun around on his heel and glared at her, then said, ‘Who decides this natural course of events? Who controls our fates? Those with money. Those with power. It’s always the rich. The idea of fate is a tool of repression. The powerful have always preached to those with nothing that they must accept their lives and that there is nothing they can do about their situations. This is wrong. We should be the masters of our own stories.’

  ‘Are we still talking about Frankenstein?’ asked Angus.

  ‘Yes, we are still talking about Frankenstein.’

  ‘So it’s about fate, is it?’ asked someone else.

  ‘About fate? Come on, comrades, we’re better than this. You can’t reduce a book to one word. This is a book about love; that is a book about fate; this one is about kittens. Would you do that to a person? What are you about? Books are about every single word they contain.’

  We were used to Mr Cornish getting het up but he did seem angrier than usual today. ‘Next week, as well as wasting your lives with zombie-killing computer games and trivial television shows, I would like you to read this book yourselves.’

  A groan went up from the class. ‘The whole thing?’ someone shouted.

  ‘Yes, read. I realise this is revolutionary concept but perhaps that’s what the world needs. Like it or not, you lot are going to inherit a world in which the progression of science will need to be questioned and challenged. And as you read these words, I want you to count how many times you find yourself hoping that Victor Frankenstein will do the right thing and not create the monster.’

  ‘But we already know he will,’ said Angus.

  ‘And yet it is in our nature to empathise and hope that Victor Frankenstein changes course.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Scarlett. ‘I think we want him to make the monster.’

  ‘Why would you want that?’ demanded Cornish.

  ‘Because it makes a good story,’ she replied, ‘and we know it’s not real.’

  ‘The idea of scientists dabbling in things they should leave well alone is real enough,’ said Mr Cornish.

  ‘How about playing God?’ asked Scarlett.

  ‘We are all gods,’ hissed Cornish. ‘Anyone who creates, anyone who lives and breathes. The question is not whether we should play God, but how we should do so responsibly.’

  When the final bell rang, the whole class walked out quieter than usual, wary of this new version of our English teacher sitting at his desk, clutching his copy of Frankenstein.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Angus once we were out of the room.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ I replied. ‘You catching the bus?’

  ‘No. Dad’s coming to pick us up. We’re going to see that new space film. I could ask if we could squeeze you in?’

  ‘Sounds good but Ruby will be expecting me.’

  ‘All right, suit yourself. Come round tomorrow and we’ll begin the project.’

  ‘The project?’ I replied.

  ‘The Ten Top Challenge. You and I on a mission of discovery, boldly going where no one has gone before. Reaching new heights —’

  ‘Climbing trees,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Climbing trees,’ repeated Angus.

  Conspiracy Theories

  ‘Another thing that never changes here at the National Museum of Echo Technology is the recording made by Professor Maguire,’ said the man in the orange T-shirt, ‘in which he demonstrated how echo jumping works.’

  A screen showed a man in a white coat. ‘My name is David Maguire and this is a scientific d
emonstration,’ he began.

  ‘Turn it off,’ said Liphook.

  The nice young man waved his arm and the image vanished. ‘Of course, you’ve seen it before,’ he said apologetically. ‘Everyone has.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Liphook. ‘It’s just that before that message, before all this … ’ She gesticulated around her. ‘The world was simpler back then. Things made sense.’

  ‘Echo technology is certainly complicated but if you’d care to visit the explanation room you’ll find very clear displays about the time particle, version creation, and echo jumping.’

  ‘I’m not interested in any of that,’ said Liphook dismissively.

  The young man looked momentarily confused by this. ‘Then why are you here?’ he asked.

  ‘To remember.’

  He smiled. ‘Of course people visit for all sorts of reasons. We get a lot interested in the truth behind David Maguire’s murder. Apparently there are now over two hundred different theories about who was behind it.’

  ‘I don’t care about that either,’ said Liphook. ‘I know the truth.’

  From the young man’s expression, Liphook could tell he had heard this before but she couldn’t be bothered to explain that she was different from all the other conspiracy theorists. She knew the truth and it had turned out to be more outlandish than the most extraordinary explanation.

  Liphook realised the man had spoken. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I was asking about your theory,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not a theory,’ she said. ‘At least, it’s not my theory. I’m not even sure if it’s our truth, but it was someone’s truth. I don’t suppose this makes much sense to you, does it?’

  The man kindly avoided answering the question. ‘Personally, I don’t think we’ll ever know the truth, but did you really come here when Maguire still lived here?’

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I came the day he died.’

  Plausible Lies

  I had never thought the bus seats too small before but, with Scarlett sitting next to me, I had no idea what to do with my arms. The whole set up felt ridiculously awkward. As a last resort, I gripped my elbows to avoid any unnecessary contact.

  ‘Are you cold?’ asked Scarlett.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Only, you look like you’re cold.’

  I placed my hands on my knees instead and the bus went lurching forward like a hiccupping camel, making it impossible to avoid banging into Scarlett. I had considered a number of conversation topics but decided to stick with the one that I knew she was interested in.

  ‘You know you asked all that stuff about the car accident?’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s funny, because that’s what Cornish had forgotten.’

  ‘He thought Melody was alive?’

  ‘Yes, which was odd because we talked about it only the other day.’

  ‘Why didn’t he give you a lift home tonight?’

  ‘I think he had a meeting. He doesn’t always give me a lift.’

  ‘Where’s his house?’

  ‘Down in Lower Marsh, in this funny little row of houses they call No Town.’

  ‘No Town?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently someone had an idea of building a town there once but they only got as far as that row before they ran out of money. Or the ground was too soft. Or something like that. Maybe it’s not true.’

  I was babbling and, from the distracted look on Scarlett’s face, I had lost her interest. I needed to get it back.

  ‘That was weird in class, wasn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘You tell me. You know him better than I do. Is he normally like that?’

  ‘He often goes off on one, but no, all that stuff about fate and inheriting the world was a bit odd. Why do you want to know where he lives?’

  ‘It’s probably better if I don’t answer that,’ she replied.

  There was a sudden jolt as Bill sped over a pothole in the road.

  ‘I don’t get it. You’re happy asking questions about my dead mother but when I ask you even basic things about you, you won’t answer.’ I had hoped this would sound jokey, but it came out more upset and annoyed.

  ‘Yes, that must seem unfair,’ she agreed.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said, ‘what about if I guess why you’re so secretive and you tell me if I get it right?’

  The smallest of smiles spread across Scarlett’s lips. ‘All right, but it has to be completely right.’

  I thought for a moment, then said, ‘Are you a kind of alien secret agent who thinks that Mr Cornish has been possessed by an extraterrestrial life form and you want to know where he lives so you can zap him with an anti-matter gun that will send the alien back home?’

  I loved the sound of Scarlett’s laughter.

  ‘Have you got any more like that?’ she said.

  ‘Loads. You’re an undercover cop and you think Mr Cornish has been hypnotised to kill the Prime Minister?’

  ‘Why would someone hypnotise an English teacher to kill the Prime Minister?’

  ‘Because they know about the big conference he’s going to which the Prime Minister will also be at.’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’ she asked.

  ‘You tell me.’

  More laughter. ‘These are good but not close enough for me to tell you anything. To be honest, Eddie, I’d be in enough trouble if anyone knew you thought there was anything to know.’

  ‘In trouble with who?’

  ‘The fact you’re asking that means you know too much.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ I said.

  ‘Is this going to be Angus’s monster theory again?’

  ‘No. In this one, you’re the bad guy who has taken over Cornish’s mind and you’re using him to execute your evil plan.’

  ‘To kill the Prime Minister?’

  ‘No, to blow up the school.’

  ‘Wow, I’m so evil.’

  ‘Is that one right, then?’

  ‘No.’ She paused and I realised how close our lips were. I wondered what my breath was like. I kept my mouth shut in case.

  ‘What I’m supposed to do now is feed you some plausible lie,’ she said quietly, ‘but I don’t want to do that. I’d rather tell you the truth.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘The truth is I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘I’ll take a plausible lie,’ I said.

  I happily bagged another of Scarlett’s smiles. This one was my favourite so far because it included her eyes. ‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘I’m going around tomorrow to ask him some questions about Frankenstein.’

  ‘Really?’

  Scarlett sighed. ‘Eddie, the world is very complicated and you’re very young.’

  ‘We’re the same age,’ I protested.

  ‘It’s not worth getting interested in me. I’m not going to be here very long,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe you’ll like it here and stay,’ I said hopefully.

  ‘It’s not up to me.’ Her final smile was the saddest so far and contained traces of pity and other things I didn’t understand. The bus suddenly lurched to the right and Scarlett’s face swung even closer to mine.

  ‘All right, Miss White. We’re home. Good night,’ yelled Bill.

  ‘See you around, Eddie Dane,’ she said.

  A Picture of Regret

  The unlocked front door, the strong smell of paint and the sound of scratchy jazz records meant Ruby was having an up day. Ruby’s paintings were as messy and chaotic as the music that inspired her and it was rarely just the canvases that got splattered.

  As I stepped into the front room, I saw flecks of red, blue, yellow and green across the wall, the carpet and the sofa, even reaching as far as the grandfather clock and the television. In the middle of all this stood Ruby.

  ‘What do
you think?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s great,’ I lied. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Regret,’ she replied.

  I had learned not to question this kind of thing. Instead I said, ‘Have you been to the shops?’

  ‘No, but I think there are couple of ready meals in the freezer.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t eating ready meals any more. I thought they were symbolic of something.’

  ‘The soul-crushing instant gratification of the modern world,’ said Ruby. ‘Yes, they are. But I’ve been working on this all day and haven’t managed to make it out. It’s just so hard to … ’ Apparently it was too hard to find the right word for what it was too hard to do. Ruby turned back to the canvas and I went into the kitchen. I noticed I had a smudge of green paint on my shirt. I took the shirt off and threw it into the washing machine.

  ‘Striptease, is it?’ said Ruby, following me in.

  I showed her the paint.

  ‘I’m sorry, love. Have you a clean one for tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow,’ I replied, ‘and then half term.’

  ‘Is it? Is it? Any big plans?’

  ‘Angus has a tree-climbing project.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’ Ruby opened the freezer and pulled out two boxes covered in ice. ‘What do you fancy? Tagliatelle or a roast meal? Actually, do you mind if I have the tagliatelle? I always think those roast meals taste a bit like the kind of thing you get given in an old folks’ home, and I might be old but I’m not ready for that quite yet.’

  ‘Is it about Melody?’ I asked.

  ‘The ready meal?’

  ‘The painting. The regret. Is it about her?’

  ‘Your mother is in there, of course.’

  ‘So what’s the regret?’

  ‘It’s complicated. It’s not one thing. Your mother and I were very different people. I wish we had learned to accept our differences and worked harder on the things we had in common.’