by David Wake
He’d learnt something, Braddon realised. There was an underground of unbrows, educated and living beyond any ghetto. Or perhaps this world of manual codes was just another ghetto. Taylor had gone to meet an unbrow date, who could have been anyone, a pretty Linzi Fifty Five, some great hulking rugby–playing hitman or anyone.
Or Steiger?
He noodled and remembered his previous search. She’d been seen at a service station up north when Taylor was killed. His own thoughts confirmed that she’d been at his apartment when the car hit Inspector Wainwright.
So it wasn’t Steiger, but something was going on, something secret and underhand, an insidious spreading of information that wasn’t open and above board like thought.
They finished their beer.
Braddon felt he should ask more questions, he was a Detective Sergeant after all, but nothing came to mind. They relied on Noodle too much… no, 99.9% of crimes were solved by a twenty second noodle search, but these ‘count them on the fingers of one hand’ cases went on and on.
It was Inspector Dartford’s problem, not his.
Braddon would sober up and think the details over in the morning.
“Could you do me a favour?” Braddon asked.
“Depends… go on.”
“My ex–boss’s niece is staying, and I sort of… made an ass of myself.”
“Oh yes?”
“She’s a massive fan of Tammy–Zing, and she’s doing Celebrity Studies.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“So I wondered…”
“Wondered?”
“You know, if there was anything you could do to… something, I don’t know.”
“Something?”
“Not her underwear.”
Entwhistle laughed aloud. “All right. There’s an event, tomorrow night, ‘An evening with the Cerebral Celebrities’. I could wangle a VIP pass.”
“You’re joking!”
“Reuben Mantle is coming,” Entwhistle said, “so he can display how much he cares about the Cerebral Celebrities in person. I think I could get an invite and guest.”
“That would be bloody marvellous.”
“No problem. Once I’m back at Sentinel House I’ll have a word with Janice or Laura, and they’ll send through the details on their iBrow devices.”
“Fantastic… my round then.”
“In that case, a single malt.”
It was Braddon’s turn to laugh–out–loud, but he did it silently. It buffered.
The whiskies arrived.
Braddon lifted his glass.
“Hello Scotch,” he said, remembering Inspector (retired) Jellicoe’s phrase after a noodle, “glad to meet you.”
“A connoisseur,” Entwhistle said.
“Hardly.”
They both savoured the single malt, enjoying the nose, the way it burnt on the palate and its unique flavour.
“It’s a cliché, you know,” Entwhistle said. “The alcoholic detective.”
“I have to drink to prevent criminals following me,” Braddon replied. “Anyway, technically I’m not a detective, I’m on leave.”
“Lucky you, but only people who… what’s that phrase?” Entwhistle said.
“Have something to hide want privacy.”
“That’s it, but it’s also said that people drink to forget.”
“Well, that’s definitely not me. I can’t forget,” said Braddon, conscious of the permanent record stored somewhere in the cloud of everything he had ever thought. There they all were for anyone to flick through. Braddon did so, skimming from ‘Where am I? Mum, is it over? Is it in?’ all the way to ‘Oh well. Women.’ and then the buffered lolls.
“But with your iBrow device’s safety engaged, you don’t remember.”
“I don’t remember my thoughts while drunk, I suppose, if I delete them from my cache. But it’s an active choice to forget.”
“Like I don’t remember when I have the Lethe.”
“Leffe?”
“Not the lager, ‘Lethe’. The ‘amnesia juice’, a mix of nepenthatrine and a few others. It affects the memory. It’s named after the River of Lethe from Ancient Greek myth. It’s on the way to the Underworld. It means ‘forgetfulness’ or perhaps, more literally, ‘concealment’.”
“Even you take it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
Entwhistle laughed: “I don’t remember.”
It caused Braddon, who had been idly parsing his own Thinkerfeed, to pick up a couple of thoughts from earlier in the day: ‘Must remember’ and then ‘Must remember what?’
What indeed, he thought, but it buffered.
No doubt he’d find out.
He didn’t remember much after that either. He and Entwhistle had another drink, talked about poker and books. Entwhistle made his excuses and his way out. It was a short walk to Sentinel House.
Braddon thought for a taxi and he was sober by the time he got home.
Entwhistle had been as good as his word and the link came via a thought from a strange ID.
I wondered when you’d drag yourself home, Chloe thought as he closed his door behind him.
Once upon a time, Braddon was assured, people used to wrap presents and give them as a surprise – not anymore.
The change was instant.
Chloe was beside herself, her thoughts tumbling over themselves even before he managed to hang his coat up in the hallway.
He heard her bouncing around in the lounge and Braddon feared for his furniture.
I’m not going to break anything… else.
Recognition range always made thoughts brighter.
All right, all right, calm down.
Calm down! Calm down. How can I calm down? I’m going to see Tammy–Zing. VIP tickets. Tammy–Zing.
If only he’d drunk more and been able to keep it to himself.
You’re as bad as Uncle Aidan.
He found her in the lounge, practically jumping up and down. She threw her arms around him and smothered him in appreciative emoticons.
Fine, he thought, are we friends?
Yes, yes, yes.
You’ll have to be on your best behaviour.
Yes, of course, and I must buy some new clothes.
Excuse me–
Don’t be like that.
But when we first met, you bought–
Yes, yes.
Loads of clothes.
But they are all wrong.
They were cerebrities’ choices, weren’t they?
Oh, honestly!
Braddon settled on his sofa and followed something mindless: it had been a long day. Yesterday, someone had nearly blown him up; today, he was a pariah at the station and now he was on leave. Thank god.
Oh, oh, Tammy–Zing is excited about the event! I’m going to be there too. Actually see the Suites – wonderful.
He needed a break. It would do him good. No more Mantle, no more zombies, no more not knowing. It was a moot point anyway. Let them have their privacy and their secrets. There was no way he was going to get into Sentinel House to question anyone anyway.
What about this?
I can’t see, Braddon thought.
Check the link.
Braddon did so and saw in his mind’s eye an image of Chloe looking out of a mirror. It was so awash with emoticons of joy that Braddon simply rethought a snatch of them.
Oh no, Chloe thought, that was so last week, so yesterday.
So last minute?
Oi!
Why not ask – he noodled and remembered Chloe’s friend’s name – Tiffany.
I am doing that. You’re useless.
Thank you.
Braddon dragged himself upright and went to the fridge for a bottle of something to escape from this nonsense.
Yes, he was useless.
He wasn’t even a police officer anymore: What am I?
Jellicoe had wanted his niece to live her life and a celebrity event was doing something, not just sitting at home think
ing along with the people there. Wasn’t it?
Braddon drank, felt the liquid relaxing him and then noticed the bottle was moving. It vibrated, jigging back and forth, exciting the bubbles and causing the froth to rise. It was fascinating, utterly absorbing until the bubbles could no longer hold themselves together and a trickle of lager ran down the cold glass and onto his fingers.
His hand was shaking.
A delayed reaction to the explosion perhaps?
He was done with the case – it was over.
He drank, felt better for it and returned to the sofa.
He picked out another cerebral, something funny that he’d followed before and, eyes closed, he let the comforting thoughts flood into the brow.
And this?
Lovely.
Why are you laughing?
Cerebral.
Oh, ignore me then.
OK.
I’m not cross, just disappointed.
Braddon knew she was neither: her emoticons were all excited.
He drank more beer: his safeties cut in, Thank goodness. Buffered.
What about this? Braddon?
Chloe came in.
He showed her the bottle.
Honestly, she thought back, what about this?
“This what?”
The dress.
“Lovely.”
It is, isn’t it?
She twirled happily.
“There’s a catch,” Braddon said.
Oh yes?
“I’m your plus one.”
WEEK TWO
FRIDAY, NOON
Chloe was excited – very excited – and she was ready two hours early, and then she delayed their departure by twenty minutes as she did a few last–minute touches to her outfit. This was Tammy–Zing’s pattern, so Braddon supposed they wouldn’t miss anything. The cerebrities themselves were more important and so they’d be later still.
Come on, Chloe.
Yeah, OK, OK.
Braddon accepted that this was probably the best batch of emoticons he was going to get, so he went to the staircase to go down to the car and–
I mustn’t forget that package.
He turned back and retrieved the unopened package from the shelf under the coat hooks.
I mustn’t forget that package, he thought again, Yes, yes, I know, I’ve got it.
He was angry with himself, because he’d nearly forgotten it.
I won’t open it yet, he thought.
He sat in the car, put the package in the glove compartment, and started a mantra of come on to Chloe’s I’m coming until she was finally there running to the parking area.
It’s covered in muck, Chloe thought as she came up.
The car still had a light haze of dust from the explosion at Sentinel House.
They drove without exchanging any thoughts: Chloe was following Tammy–Zing, Zak–Zak and all their friends like millions of others, except that Chloe was going to the party in person.
As they pulled into the car park at Sentinel House, Braddon saw that there was construction work at the front. They were rebuilding reception and a temporary entrance had been set up at the side of the building. There was more security too.
Come on, Chloe thought.
I mustn’t forget the package.
What is it?
Braddon wondered about this: I don’t know.
Chloe led the way: Oh, come on!
I mustn’t forget the package.
It’s in your hand.
I know, I know.
At Oliver, come on, come on.
The new reception area looked remarkably finished for a temporary entrance.
It wasn’t Janice on duty, but instead, Braddon recognised Laura.
Braddon thought at her: How’s Janice?
She’s fine, Laura thought, taking a few days off.
Good idea.
There were a lot of people waiting to go up. Before the lift arrived, it thought the names of the next batch. They queued, so that the security guards could wave metal detecting wands over them.
Braddon and Chloe were scanned.
I mustn’t forget the package, Braddon thought. He’d left it on the reception desk and so he had to go back to collect it.
The Security guard was bored and was trying to follow some sporting event in the States, but they were on edge in case of another explosion.
He stopped Braddon: What’s that?
I’m a Detective Sergeant.
I know that, what’s the package?
This took Braddon by surprise, because he didn’t know what the package actually was: It’s a bottle of wine, he thought. Oh, so that’s what it is.
The guard waved the metal detecting wand over it without a bleep: It’s not really necessary.
A… thanks for the invite to Entwhistle, Braddon thought, realising that that was a good idea. It would be a surprise as the unbrow wouldn’t be warned.
The box felt wrong to be a bottle of wine. He wondered what it was, because–
Lift’s here, Chloe thought, come on.
The lift disgorged them at Floor 25, the Suites, but ushers directed them to a big function room. There was wine and orange juice, elegant glasses to carry through to the outside.
Better keep a clear head, Braddon thought, or should I switch my safeties off. Only someone with something to hide wants privacy and I’ve nothing to hide. I’ll have a drink. Maybe one. I’ll have a drink.
Braddon tucked the parcel under his arm, swiped a glass of wine, drank it, and took another.
I’ll have a drink, he thought.
Don’t embarrass me, Chloe thought.
Braddon slugged the wine back to prevent his opinion of that leaking.
I got that.
His safeties hadn’t cut in.
He kept in the flow of people until he was outside.
Outside!
It was bright, a summer’s day from a warmer clime. Braddon blinked, other guests put on sunglasses and it seemed like he was travelling to a holiday destination with every step forward.
The smell struck Braddon: jasmine, lemon, all perfumes rather than the familiar city stench.
The garden was surprisingly wide and spacious, but then Braddon had only seen it from a distance. The trees had fruit, exotic citrus and apples, the central pool reflected the sunlight and the houses around the parkland were low and elegant, all unique and yet they blended to produce a pleasant holiday setting.
It was hard to believe they were half–way up a building.
Only one side was different, the huge monolithic glass wall towered above them, semi–invisible as it reflected the brilliant sky. That was why it was brighter here, and why oranges and lemons could grow. He’d been on the other side of those windows and had stared down at this Garden of Eden.
Braddon’s safeties stuttered, but remained off.
At Braddon, it is good, isn’t it?
Braddon recognised Emile Larson, somewhere in recognition range tucked behind some of the other guests, and knew him from his sneering emoticons.
Yes, Braddon thought, squeezing as much sarcasm into it as he could. It didn’t buffer. He’d only had a glass and a half.
What are you doing here, Detective Sergeant?
Braddon turned trying to locate the man: I’m invited.
Larson tilted his head: You’re not on the list.
I’m a plus one.
You? For whom?
Chloe Jellicoe.
The ex–actor’s emoticons fluttered as he checked: Why?
She’s staying with me.
A bit young, isn’t she? But then you do shag zombies.
She is not…
Braddon felt nettled: he hoped it wasn’t leaking, but he knew it was. The man had obviously checked Braddon’s Thinkerfeed enough to find out which buttons to press, so he’d already know that Chloe was his ex–inspector’s niece.
I’ll have a drink.
There’s a bar back in Room 2501.
&n
bsp; Thanks. I’ll have a drink. Yes, yes. At Chloe, I’ll just get a little fresh air.
It’ll be fine, at Oliver, don’t fuss, but the fresh air is out here, not in the bar.
I know, I know.
She was deliriously excited and entirely missed any leaks he might have about the place.
As Braddon left the garden, he glanced back and caught sight of Larson’s thinning hair. The ex–actor was busy thinking at others and trying to suppress leaks about cigarettes.
Braddon needed to talk to Mantle.
He headed for the bar in the main function room, weaving through the junior celebrities, each vying to raise their cerebrity profile. There were other celebrities from other corporations, here to show solidarity with CC Inc.’s team. Here to gain followers. They reeked of desperation, a desire to be loved absent in the upper echelon: Tammy–Zing, Zak–Zak and Lola_Five. As Braddon walked through recognizing them as they recognized him, they exchanged thoughts.
Mantle will be here, don’t worry. I’m Terry–Bee.
Yes, at Terry–Bee, fine, thank you.
What’s that?
This? Braddon still had the package. It’s a surprise.
Ooh, can I look?
No.
It’s a bottle of wine in your Thinkerfeed.
Very smart.
Ooh, you’re a policeman – do you have the uniform?
My dress uniform is at home.
Shame. Dress, you say?
I should have got steamed before I got here.
Charming!
There was wine, red and white, and nibbles that were as fancy as they were small. Braddon knocked back a red, then thought better of the likely hangover, and chose a white. It was good wine, just as you’d expect from a trillionaire host.
The trouble was they were playing music. As the guests drank, more and more of them talked aloud, but the volume was such that they couldn’t. Either they’d drink more or switch to soft drinks.
Braddon, his back to the wall, surveyed the scene.
There was a wash of thoughts moving in waves, lapping against one side and rebounding. A policeman in a dress – apparently, ooh where? – had moved around. Like the bay where Jellicoe’s boat was anchored, the thoughts sloshed around, occasionally invigorated by the storm of a real, true–to–life celebrity. Tammy–Zing was nearly ready, Zak–Zak would love this outfit, and there were many more in the Fiery Love’s catalogue; Zak–Zak fiddled with his cufflinks, just think and they’ll be delivered to your home; and Lola_Five was taking a shower in the luxurious Tisane Pachoulis gel.