Trust Me!

by Paul Collins

  But as I watched, fine lines began to etch around her eyes and out towards her temples. They then furrowed down to her chin. The lines deepened and the woman's hair began to grey. First at her temples, then the grey spread over all of her hair, fading to white.

  The older she became the more familiar she began to look. I spun and I spun but every time I turned to face the image in the mirror the woman had grown older still. Who was this woman ageing before my very eyes? Great-auntie Bo? But no. Her eyes had been blue. Curious. Yet she looked so much like great-auntie Bo.

  But then, I was the only one in my family with green eyes.

  The email that started it all didn't even arrive in my Inbox. The fact I noticed it at all amongst the Lonely Lady/Viagra/Business Opportunity spam in my junk folder was one of those domestic miracles. A meaningful coincidence like knowing who's on the phone before you read the caller ID or the time I turned on the TV and saw Carly Dwight waving at the camera from behind a reporter. The journalist was buzzing, smiling, squeaky-voiced about the humpbacks in the harbour – first time in twenty years – and Carly was craning over her shoulder and waving with three fingers. That made Carly the only person I knew that I'd seen on TV and I'd just randomly turned the set on and there she was. Domestic miracle. Meaningful coincidence.

  Anyway, the email was simple. The subject read ‘Answers’ and I wouldn't have opened it at all if I'd read the sender's name properly. It was from Luke Thompson. Luke and I had a thing in Year 9 but it never got sweaty. He's cute and capable of conversation, and he was brave enough to call Nathan Sharp a xenophobe to his face after we'd suffered through one of Nathan's barely masked racist rants. Luke was like a pair of shoes that feel nice in the shop but you get them home and never wear them. And that Luke Thomson had no ‘p’ in his surname. So I opened the junked email I thought was from a friend and it just said: ‘Click HERE for answers. This is so cool!!’

  I was on Mum's computer because my hard-drive had died spectacularly on Monday – with plastic smoke – and I remember praying that the link didn't pop to some hideous porn site. Mum was slumped in the lounge behind me, mostly watching Deal or No Deal but I knew if the computer screen started filling with bare flesh, that would be the moment she'd casually glance over my shoulder and life wouldn't be worth living. Again.

  There was no gratuitous nudity. No smutty animation, just a white page and a single word in a scrolled gothic script.

  I moved down the page and found two input boxes. One asked for my email address and the other was headed ‘Please ask your question here’. At the bottom of the box was a button titled ‘ASK’. Okay, I thought, so it's one of those Artificial Intelligence things that spits out a response from a list based on the words in your question. I'd seen them before and even asked a few questions but the answers came back all wooden and lifeless like the eyes of a Sim. We still have a long way to go until AI moves from ‘Artificial’ to ‘Intelligent’. Still, I thought the email was from Luke and that fact gave it weight. Luke was many things, but he certainly wasn't e-frivolous.

  I entered my hotmail address and stared at the wall while I pondered my question. It had to be something simple but juicy. I wanted an answer that didn't sound like horoscope gibberish, applicable for anyone who reads it.

  What is my favourite colour?

  I clicked the ASK button and it flashed through to an acknowledgement screen which said ‘Thank you for your question. Your answer will be emailed shortly’. There was a button centred below that: ‘ASK another question?’

  I refreshed my email page – must have taken all of two seconds – and there was a new drop from Answers in the junk file.

  Subject: The Answer to Your Question.

  I opened the mail and read the one-word response.

  Magenta.

  Okay. Lucky guess. But I have to admit, it did make me smile. And type another question. Something a little more personal. A little more abstract.

  How many brothers and sisters do I have? ASK.

  Again, as soon as I hit refresh on the junk email page, the response was there.

  Subject: The Answer to Your Question.

  Two brothers. One living, one dead.

  The hair prickled on my neck and arms. I put my hand over my mouth.

  ‘What is it?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, a little sharply. ‘Just a strange website.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘One of those Artificial Intelligence things.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  New question: Where do I live? ASK.

  Subject: The Answer to Your Question.

  12 Clarence Road, Verness.

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The AI knows where we live.’

  Mum groaned as she levered herself out of the couch. She put her hand on the back of my chair.

  ‘You just type your question and it emails you a response.’

  She huffed. ‘Be careful. Probably spyware. Getting the information off the server.’

  ‘It knew about Brodie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked how many brothers and sisters I had and it told me I have two brothers, one living, one dead.’

  The cursor blinked in the question box. I could hear Mum breathing.

  ‘Really?’ There was a beaten softness to her voice. That tenderised sort of tender, just for the one word. ‘Who sent you the link?’

  ‘This kid at school, Luke.’

  ‘How well does he know you?’

  I smiled then. A sly smile of satisfaction like when you crack a puzzle. Luke knew where I lived. Everyone knew about Brodie.

  ‘Let's see,’ I said, and typed my question.

  Who is my father? ASK.

  Mum and Dad split up when I was four. He was the kind of secret my school friends never knew. As far as my secrets go, he was one of my deeper and darker ones. Or so I thought …

  The response was instant.

  ‘Who the hell is Michael Hansford?’ I asked.

  It was Mum's turn to put her hand over her mouth. Her pupils were big and shiny like someone had slapped her face.

  ‘Who is Michael Hansford?’

  ‘He was … I … Get off the computer, right now!’

  Suddenly there was steel in my veins. All the spitting rage I'd been saving for my ghost of a father hammered away at my temples. I spun on the chair to face my mother, eyes afire. It seemed my rage had been misdirected all these years.

  Mum sensed it. She stared back, then bowed her head. ‘I'm sorry, love. I meant to tell you years ago I …’ Her brow furrowed. ‘How did your friend know that?’

  I clicked back to the question screen, my heart stumbling along in my chest. ‘I don't think it is Luke.’

  Who are you? ASK.

  I have many names.

  Where do your answers come from? ASK.

  The heart of hearts.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Mum asked.

  I shrugged.

  What are my mother's deepest darkest secrets?

  She slapped my hand off the mouse and grabbed my shoulder. Her nails bit like puppy teeth. ‘Don't you dare!’ she fumed.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I said, and held up my hands. That question could wait for another day. ‘Your turn. What do you want to ask?’

  She let my shoulder go. Her breathing was all choppy like the dog's when he dreams.

  ‘Move,’ she said.

  I rolled the chair aside. She thought for the barest minute, then began typing.

  Why won't my sister talk to me? ASK.

  She blames you for the breakdown of her marriage.

  ‘It can't be that simple,’ she whispered.

  ‘Sometimes it is. My turn.’

  I sat there, staring at the screen, my mind aching with the possibilities.

  ‘Hurry up.’

  How can I stop global warming? ASK.

  The response was instantaneous again, only when I opened the email, it was seventeen pages lo
ng. There is no way it could have been typed in the seconds between sending the question and refreshing the junk file. I tried to scan through it but the mouse scampered randomly over the page and I swore under my breath. I scrolled with the arrow keys. Step-by-step instructions. The names of people I needed to meet and things I needed to say to each person. Scientists, politicians, and that American actor, George Clooney.

  ‘Read it later. My turn,’ Mum said.

  What are the winning numbers for Saturday's lotto draw? ASK.

  ‘Oh, good one, Mum. Now you're thinking.’

  She chuckled. When the email arrived, I wrote the numbers down as she read them out.

  How can I stop the war in Iraq? ASK.

  Again, the email response was as fast as a page can reload. Screen after screen of detailed instructions with passages in Arabic script and a Google map that revealed the location of a parchment destined to help each and every person who read it understand the true essence of faith. It strode past all religion and gave the reader the capacity to imagine the world through other people's eyes.

  ‘That's totally amazing,’ Mum whispered. ‘It's a miracle. Look at me, I'm crying.’

  That came as no surprise. I couldn't wipe my own tears. They sailed down my cheeks and exploded on my lap. I clicked back to the original email. It was then that I realised it hadn't come from Luke.

  ‘I … I don't know where it came from. That's not how Luke spells his name. I found it in my junk mail.’

  ‘Who cares where it came from. Can't it just be a miracle?’

  Mum shoved me aside and her fingers scrambled over the keyboard.

  Who killed Brodie? ASK.

  My heart was a drum roll as Mum fumbled the email open.

  Hayden Turner.

  Mum groaned. It came from deep inside her and was as mournful as a dingo howl. It couldn't be. I read the name again and again. It just wasn't possible … was it? Mum typed again. I was too smashed to protest.

  Why did Hayden kill Brodie? ASK.

  I grabbed the mouse. ‘Don't. Don't do it, Mum. It doesn't matter. You don't want to know.’

  ‘I already know,’ Mum said, breathlessly.

  Hayden was jealous of Brodie's confidence.

  ‘That's just stupid,’ I said. ‘Brothers don't kill each other for that.’

  Mum nodded slowly, eyes closed as if in prayer.

  I commandeered the keyboard.

  Is there a heaven? ASK.

  You're in it.

  Mum took the keyboard back again.

  Is there a hell? ASK.

  You're in it.

  With that answer still open, there was a faint electrical pop and Windows froze. The mouse stopped moving and a line of white pixels appeared across the top of the screen. Mum swore out loud and almost smashed the keyboard in her frustration.

  ‘It's okay. We can restart,’ I said, and gently shouldered Mum clear.

  I turned the power off and on again. Windows wouldn't boot. It asked for a system recovery disk and then wouldn't recover. Mum was snarling through her teeth and pacing the lounge as I tried everything I could.

  It was well and truly dark when Mum cracked it. ‘I'm going to Gina's. I'll use her computer. What's your password?’

  ‘I'm not giving you my password.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I'll come with you.’

  We rugged up. Gina was all smiles until she saw Mum's expression in the gloom. ‘What is it, Debbie? You look like you've swallowed a spider.’

  ‘Worse. Can we use your computer? Just for a few minutes.’

  ‘Of course. Come in.’

  Mum stomped into the study and dropped into the chair. Gina had been shopping on eBay before we'd arrived. Mum shook the mouse and opened the hotmail pane. ‘What's your …’ She lurched out of the chair and made a sarcastic flourish with her hands. I sat down quietly and logged in.

  ‘What is it, Debbie? What happened?’

  ‘A website. It's …’

  The server rejected my password. I must have typed badly. I tried again, one finger at a time.

  Invalid username or password. I retyped my address. I retyped my password. I restarted the computer.

  Mum held her face in her hands. All the steam had gone out of her. ‘It was a beautiful thing, Gina. A beautiful thing.’

  ‘A website? I've seen some great websites but none that I'd mourn if I couldn't log on …’

  Mum moaned. ‘You have no idea. You could ask it anything. It knew the answer to anything. Everything. It was like a broadband connection to God.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Absolutely anything,’ Mum said, and rubbed her eyes. ‘I asked who killed Brodie.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ Gina hissed. ‘Oh my god. Why would you do that?’

  Mum shrugged, and I was in.

  ‘What did it say?’ Gina asked.

  Mum was hanging over my shoulder, her breathing stormy and shallow.

  My heart sank.

  My hotmail account was empty. Wiped clean. Not a message in my inbox, not a slice of spam in my junk.

  ‘Where is it? Where has it all gone?’ Mum whimpered. ‘Oh my …’

  ‘What?’ Gina said.

  ‘The link to the website was in my junk file. All the messages were in my junk file. All gone.’

  ‘Can't you Google it? What was it called?’

  There were about 220 million websites containing the word Answers.

  ‘What about the history on your web browser?’ Gina suggested.

  ‘We can't get the computer started.’ Mum cursed.

  ‘Call Dave,’ Gina said, and handed Mum the phone. ‘If it can be salvaged, Dave will do it.’

  Dave reluctantly agreed to work on Mum's computer at that hour. We carted it around to his smoky garage in Tyler Street and he had the back off and the hard drive out in five minutes. He wired it into the exposed entrails of another computer, but the screen in front of him refused to acknowledge its existence.

  ‘Sorry to be the one to tell you,’ Dave said. ‘She's dead. Hard drive is fried. I can get you a new one for seventy bucks.’

  Mum screamed. It was a long horrible scream for the dead – hopes, hard drives and sons – and it made something metal in the shed ring in sympathy.

  The silence that followed was bigger than the Internet.

  I hung my head as we trudged home but I wasn't sad. I was laughing inside. The irony got to me. It was another one of those domestic miracles. Some freak of electronic nature had given us a window into something so much bigger than ourselves, and an equal and opposite freak of electronic nature had taken it away.

  Hayden was home when we got there. He still had his work uniform on and he smelled of deep-fried food. Mum just looked at him.

  ‘What?’

  She reached out her hand. ‘I know it was you,’ she whispered.

  The statement seemed so vague, so random, but I watched Hayden buckle slightly like he'd taken a blow.

  ‘I know it was you,’ she said again, but there was no anger or accusation in her tone. She took his hand and he folded into her.

  ‘It was an accident,’ he sobbed. ‘I only meant to frighten him. I didn't know he'd fall.’

  Hayden cried for a long time. Mum helped him into bed like he was a five-year-old. I made us hot chocolates.

  ‘You know,’ Mum said. ‘I knew the answers to the questions before I asked them. Somewhere, deep inside me, I knew.’

  ‘Your heart of hearts.’

  Mum snorted. ‘Yeah.’

  I nodded, but the more I thought about it, the less I believed. Answers revealed so much about the world beyond my humble life. Mum was treating it like a horoscope, so the miracle made some sort of accidental sense, so it didn't blow her mind, but my mind was already vandalised. I'd seen beyond the flashing images of life. I'd caught a glimpse of what was beyond the set. I'd emailed the Director.

  And there was nothing to show for it.

  Nothing except a few numb
ers hastily scribbled on a scrap of notepaper …

  ‘If you knew how to travel through time, would you tell anyone?’ Daniel glanced sideways at his friend and kept walking. He hated it when Justin got weird.

  Justin tipped his head back and shook the tic tac box he'd been rattling for the past five minutes over his open mouth. ‘I mean, it wouldn't be much fun knowing something like that and not sharing it, hey? He tossed the box to Daniel who tapped a mint onto his tongue and threw the box back.

  Daniel hitched his backpack higher on his shoulders and doubled his pace. Joggers slapped pavement, echoing eerily in the silent street. ‘C'mon, we've got to get away from here before a teacher comes past.’

  ‘There's this theory, a time travel theory,’ Justin went on, shaking the tic tacs in time with each step. ‘You're into all that SF stuff, right? Time travel, Dan – and you don't even need a machine. Don't tell me you're not interested.’ Justin normally made fun of Daniel's love of science fiction, but there appeared to be no mockery in him now.

  They reached the waterfront and crossed the road to the empty beach. The tide was in, lapping listlessly at the dull shore. Wagging school wasn't all it was cracked up to be. If either of them had any money they would be in the games arcade by now.

  Daniel dropped his pack and slumped onto the sand, warm despite the overcast sky.

  Justin studied the water. ‘It's perfect.’ He turned and fixed Daniel with glazed eyes.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Perfect for time travelling.’

  ‘Oh geez!’ Daniel scooped up a handful of sand and flung it at him.

  Justin didn't move. ‘Go on, ask, you know you want to.’

  ‘You're a total attention seeker, you know that?’

  Justin dropped to his knees, his face aglow.

  Daniel's neck prickled. He glanced at the water. Its brightness made his eyes tear up. Everything was suddenly too bright.

  ‘I read about it in a book,’ Justin said, spraying spit.

  ‘You don't read books,’ Daniel said.

  Justin's eyes narrowed. ‘Well I read this one. It was about this guy who was flying over the sea one day –’