by Lynn Watson
It was all fairly tame and tasteful, considering. At least, this was what Fran thought until she walked through into an adjoining room, which was dark and full of couples writhing around on sofas, some of their phone cameras flashing. She felt a tap on the shoulder and turned to Vicky. Like Fran, she looked a little tipsy but not too far gone. They would find out soon enough when they hit the fresh air, anyway.
‘We’ve reached the snog room and it’s time to go, don’t you think – game over for tonight? Are you ready?’
They went into the hall to retrieve their coats and remembered they had taken them into the main room.
‘Oh, hell’s bells, I’ve forgotten where I put mine. It must be on a chair or a radiator; I don’t know.’
‘I know where they are. Wait here, I’ll get them.’ Vicky ran back into the room and returned with her own coat, but not Fran’s. Meanwhile, Fran had rustled through the coats in the hall and picked out a long jacket in a sleek leopard print, which fitted her fine.
‘Never mind – I’ll take this one. Come on, let’s go.’
She had registered earlier that the internal front door to the flat opened onto the stairwell, so they could escape the house by that route rather than pushing through the crowded kitchen. Once out on the street, she felt a huge rush, but it wasn’t so much the effect of the alcohol on hitting the fresh air. It was the familiar wild head rush of nicking something, following the old compulsion she had suppressed for so long. She had to chase after Vicky, who was urging her to hurry, but she was finding it hard to breathe. Vicky stopped to wait and she got through the dangerous moment, put her head down and took several deep breaths. They giggled and ran hand in hand in the direction of the tube station, slowing to a brisk and not entirely straight stride once they had turned the street corner.
At the tube station, they were held back at the ticket barrier because Vicky tried to use the business card of one of the partygoers, instead of her travel card. She called to Fran waiting on the other side, much too loudly.
‘Well, he’s no bloody use – his business card doesn’t even work!’
Neither of them had noticed the two police officers, who stopped them at the escalator and said they had just been notified of a stolen ladies’ jacket that closely matched the description of the one Fran was wearing. When she eventually woke up the next day, it was impossible to remember exactly what happened in the following few minutes, but she knew she was bundled into a police car without Vicky and that she was scared, as well as shivering with cold because they had taken the leopard-print jacket away from her.
When they got to the police station and she stumbled out of the car and into the starkly lit reception area, the aggressive mood seemed to shift and she was offered a mug of strong tea and a sweet biscuit. The weary but kindly officer at the desk checked she had enough money for a taxi home and ordered one, releasing her with the words,
‘You’re let off this time, honey. It’s your lucky night.’
On the way back, a message arrived from Vicky saying she’d been read the riot act and sent home with a slap on the wrist. Despite her drunken wooziness and her losing battle to stay awake and upright in the back of the taxi, Fran recognised that it was indeed her lucky night. It was unfortunate that they’d walked right into the local coppers, but she had got away with it and not been charged or thrown in a cell. Someone was watching over her.
The following afternoon when she finally rolled out of bed, she discovered two things. Seventy pounds in cash had been stolen from her purse and she had a message written in black ink on her wrist: Ring Paul, and a phone number. She sat down and tried to clear the dense fog in her brain. Paul… As she couldn’t conjure up any image or memory of him, she went into the bathroom and, after some fierce scrubbing, managed to erase his name and number. Then she took herself back to bed and pulled the pillows over her head.
Chapter 9
What to wear? She had never been to an event like this and the rejected items of clothing were piling up on the bed as she dressed and posed in front of the mirror, squinting critically at her reflection. Some of these things were years old now but were experiencing a revival thanks to the vintage style glamorised by boutiques like Frocks and Chocs, as well as the high-street fashion chains. So far, she had only tried on one pencil skirt that was too tight to zip up, which didn’t seem bad going.
She finally settled on jeans, a white top and an oversized jacket. She didn’t actually have to go out at all. She hadn’t told anyone about the lecture, so there was nothing to explain or justify, except to herself. This was another underrated plus of living on your own, permission for inaction, although admittedly it was often useful to have someone give you that little push. She went downstairs and picked up the free newspaper to look again at the advert:
Esther Simmons Memorial Lecture
Brainpower: Can We Handle It?
Professor Fred Henson-Morris and Dr Alice Stevens
University of London
Public lecture and drinks reception
She was annoyed at her last-minute dithering, given the clear relevance of the topic to her experience with Junoco, both the business side and the truffles. Yet here she was, tempted by the thought of curling up on her sofa with a simple supper, not having to make small talk with strangers or take the tube across London on a chilly autumn evening. Was that all? Was there anything else in the way, some part of her that didn’t want to find out too much, risk being scared off?
Go on, Fran, you have to go. You know you’ll regret it if you don’t.
She turned and looked at Guacamole, who seemed to stir slightly. She stared and thought she saw him move again, back to his original position. He hadn’t actually spoken, but she felt she had picked up his thought.
‘Okay, you’re right, Guacamole. It’ll be interesting, fun even. See you later, Mr Mole – and don’t you dare drop off. I’ll want to discuss it all with you when I get home.’
It was a fair distance but she had time to walk to the university, crossing the river at London Bridge and enjoying a pause to gaze at the lights playing on the water and the changing skyline, where a new super-high-rise tower of glass and concrete seemed to pop up out of thin air every time she walked across.
The lecture theatre was half full and people were streaming in when she got there with fifteen minutes to spare. She found an aisle seat close to the back, so she could make a quick escape if she wanted. This left a single empty seat beside her, which was taken by an old man in a scruffy coat who gave off a pungent, fishy smell. At this point, the presenters were walking onto the stage and the theatre was almost full, plus Fran was too polite to move away from him. He could be a retired professor whose natural eccentricities had become magnified, as had happened with her own set of elderly relatives, or else a street character following the crowd or looking for somewhere warm to sit down – or both, as even professors might conceivably fall on hard times. She tried to turn her attention from his stinking breath and the closeness of his arm and shoulder.
The two speakers were introduced as Professor Fred Henson-Morris from the university’s department of neuroscience and Dr Alice Stevens from the department of psychology. As the close-up appeared on the large screen, Fran saw that the professor was about sixty, with a tidy moustache and long, wispy sideburns. He wore a striped shirt, a slack red tie and a conventional navy suit that was at least one size too small. Dr Stevens was more interesting in her honey-coloured skirt, black polo neck and knee-high boots, together with her large, red-framed glasses. Her hair was a soft flaxen colour, wavy and artfully messy, with what looked like delicate streaks of pink running through it. It was difficult to guess her age, but perhaps mid thirties. The old man beside Fran slumped further into his seat and she hoped he wasn’t going to do anything more embarrassing than exude his mustiness, like starting to snore.
The professor spoke first, and more engagingly than she had expected on the flimsy basis of her first impression. Yes, he was rat
her full of himself, but he knew his stuff and how to put it across. In his allotted forty-five minutes, he cantered through the current state of scientific knowledge on human intelligence, the approaches to cognitive enhancement now being researched or applied, and the evidence on their potential and effectiveness.
As he explained, the academic field of brain research was vast and multi-stranded, taking in widely varying approaches, disciplines and scientific methods: electromagnetic stimulation, digital-neural connections, bio-robotics, nootropic drugs, genetic modification, optogenetics, dietary supplements and nutrition, and brain training through puzzles, games and exercises.
Regarding the most recent experimental approaches, he raised the question of how far they would overtake, compete or combine with each other. They were all funded and researched with the primary aim of preventing, diagnosing and treating diseases and medical conditions, but the methods could potentially be applied, or were already being applied, to sharpen mental faculties and enable healthy individuals to gain an intellectual advantage.
Fran was disappointed that he skimmed over the evidence on cognitive-enhancing food and drink, but as a neuroscientist, he was bound to be more interested in cutting-edge and potentially breakthrough experimental research and high-tech advances. He spent several minutes on nootropic drugs, noting that the term ‘smart drugs’ was misleading, as ‘smart’ now primarily referred to a new type of drug that could identify and zero in on diseased cells. The nootropics, from the Greek for ‘mind’ and ‘bend’, worked by changing the flow of neurotransmitters, natural chemicals in the brain, especially dopamine, serotonin and noradrenaline.
There was evidence that the nootropics, or so-called smart drugs, being taken to boost mental performance had discernible effects, including improvements in working memory and visual pattern recognition, enhanced focus and decision-making, extended wakefulness and a reduction in risky behaviour. With regard to creativity, however, they had shown no positive results and might, like caffeine, actually inhibit it. The expectation among most scientists was that drug-based advances in the near future would continue to result in making our brains more productive and efficient, rather than more creative.
On the side effects of nootropics, the research was inconclusive. Some studies reported a risk of dependence, cardiovascular problems and psychosis, while others found no such effects. The interaction of nootropics with other drugs was still unknown, leading to a game of neuro-roulette for those taking other prescribed medicines or drug cocktails. The professor believed it could take another twenty years to produce a genuine pill for cognitive enhancement, taking into account the necessity of a wide safety margin. In addition to safety, there were many complex ethical issues to be resolved around unfair advantage or unequal access, social pressure or coercion, and questions of personal identity.
It was impressive stuff. Daniela and her associates in South America could really be on to something with Junoco, given that its formulation was designed to stimulate creativity at the same time as improving focus and concentration. Following the talk, there were fifteen minutes for questions, during which Fran let her mind wander while remaining semi-attentive. The old man next to her put his hand up but wasn’t selected to ask his question. His smell seemed less pervasive now, almost familiar, and mixed with the warm exhaled breath of the rest of the audience. Sitting in front of her was a youngish man with a soft and neatly tapered hairline that would normally have attracted her attention, but she looked straight past him to watch Alice Stevens walking across to the lectern.
This presentation was also fascinating, and the psychologist peppered her talk with memorable quotations and amusing stories. Her theme was the human desire and motivation to alter or expand the mind – and where this desire could lead in our high-tech era of quicksilver scientific and medical advances, globalisation and rapid social change. Historically, it was seen in the widespread use of psychoactive plant substances, the first evidence of which dated back eleven thousand years and which, according to legend, was documented by the Emperor of China in 2700 BC. The lecturer was very assured, enjoying herself:
‘Mind-altering substances, both natural and synthetic, have been a source of inspiration for artists, writers and inventors over the centuries, but often they have been too unstable to be useful. In some cases, the uses have been primarily medicinal, but the craving to get high and have an experience of transcendence can be enough in itself, and this explains the long history of recreational use and the willingness to accept or even revel in the known and unknown risks.
‘Human intelligence is far from being understood, and it is too complex to be affected by a single intervention. Genetically, we are 98.5 per cent the same as chimps, but humans have developed much greater brain capacity since we separated from the chimps around six million years ago.
‘Our curiosity takes different forms and goes to different depths. We might be impulsively chasing the latest novelty or popular story; we might be driven by a strong wish to learn and acquire knowledge; we might be provoked by an interest in other people’s thoughts and feelings.
‘Curiosity can be convergent – in line with the thinking and wisdom of the day – or it can be divergent – out of line, radical and subversive in its implications. It has been famously described as a pure form of insubordination.’
By this time, Fran’s head was buzzing with spin-off connections. She tried to formulate a specific question to ask but got tied up with nervousness, as the whole occasion was foreign to her and she was afraid of looking foolish. If she got the chance, she would talk to Alice Stevens at the post-lecture drinks.
She had to wait almost an hour into the reception before there was a sudden break in the crowd and Dr Stevens emerged from a huddled group and moved towards the drinks table to exchange her empty glass for a full one. Fran had rightly judged that standing at the front corner of the table would be a good position for getting into conversation, and she had already had brief exchanges with several other members of the audience.
‘Hello, I’m Fran. I wanted to say that I found your talk enthralling and I’m glad I came. I saw it advertised in the free paper.’
‘Thank you. I hope I pitched it about right. I’m Alice, as you know. What brings you here tonight, then?’
Close up, Alice was older than she had appeared at a distance, which was no surprise as Fran had registered that her low-pitched voice was that of a mature woman, maybe into her forties. She had a fair, English rose kind of prettiness, and it wasn’t a trick of the light; there were pink and silver streaks, rays of colour, in her hair. Her blue-grey eyes were friendly and interested.
‘Oh, I’ve just moved to the big city and I’m keen to find out what’s going on. I was taken by what you said about curiosity being subversive. Do you think it’s still as true now as it used to be?’
‘Well, it’s a big question. I think authorities and leaders do wish to promote certain kinds of curiosity but it’s worrying to them, even in liberal societies, especially if they want particular rules and views to go unchallenged. There’s an example from Texas, only about five years ago, where the state Republican Party announced it was opposed to the teaching of critical thinking skills in schools because, in its view, such programmes were aimed at challenging the students’ fixed beliefs and undermining parental authority.’
‘Wow, I’d no idea, that’s quite shocking, but then, perhaps not surprising when you put it like that.’
‘I didn’t have time to bring it into my lecture, but governments of many colours have carried out all kinds of mind-control experiments. I don’t want to pick on the Americans too much as they are terrific pioneers, but the CIA had a sizeable mind-control programme from the 1950s to the 1970s. One of the things they were trying to discover was whether psychoactive drugs could be effective against an enemy, Fidel Castro for example. In the end, they were too volatile – the drugs, I mean. The programme was abandoned for this and other reasons.’
Fran c
ould have stayed talking to Alice all evening, but the room was emptying and she didn’t want to make her feel trapped. It was like how she had felt when she met Vicky: instantly drawn in and captivated, almost mesmerised. That was the word she had chosen at Judi’s funeral, as well. What was it she had said in her little speech? ‘Judi was mesmerising, a dazzling free spirit. She inspired me and led me astray.’
Professor Henson-Morris was coming towards them now, waving his half-full wine glass in the air. ‘Ah, here you are. Just time for one last drinkie before they shoo us out, don’t you think?’
Alice introduced him simply as Fred and he gave Fran an abrupt, piercing look that verged on rudeness. She decided it wasn’t the moment to take offence and that the man was just drunk and uninhibited, although when he leaned across the table for the last wine bottle, Alice quickly rolled her eyes, suggesting this might be normal behaviour – or maybe she wished they could have carried on talking on their own, or she was just ready to go home.
‘We were just discussing the dodgy activities of governments, Fred. Mind-control experiments and suppressing curiosity and things like that.’
‘Fascinating, and as scientists we always have to pull the policymakers along with us – but hey, it’s late. Let’s have a toast to our resounding success this evening, and to more dodgy activities all round!’