It Started With A Tweet

by Anna Bell

  Rosie screeches to a halt and yanks the handbrake on with two hands.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says excitedly, jumping out of the car.

  I stay inside for a minute, trying to take in what I’m seeing. It’s not what I had in mind.

  The stone wall around the farm is crumbling, the barn nearest to us looks as if it was recently in use to house cows, and the main farmhouse is a bit fifty shades of grey – in a stone sense, rather than a kinky one, it looks so drab and cold.

  ‘Come on,’ says Rosie, opening my door.

  I step out reluctantly, still clutching my phone. I look in desperation, hoping for a signal, but alas we’re still out of range.

  ‘You won’t be needing that,’ says Rosie, plying it out of my hand and switching it off. ‘Come on.’

  I’m still waiting for our welcoming committee to come and meet us, but Rosie marches up to the old front door.

  The farmhouse looks like it’s in a better state than the rest of the farm; the roof is tiled with dark slate that looks new and shiny, and the stone in the wall looks solid. But on close inspection, the windows and door tell a different story. The paintwork is still flaking on the windows, the wooden frames look rotten and the front door is broken at the bottom, leaving a hole the size of my foot. I get the impression that neither do a good job of keeping the elements out.

  Rosie lifts a huge rock along one of the walls and retrieves a comically large iron key, which she uses to unlock the door. She gives it a good shove with her shoulder and it creaks open.

  I follow her inside and we find ourselves in the kitchen of the house, if I can even call it that. The walls are covered in bare plaster with an assortment of mismatched cupboards along them, there’s a sink with exposed pipes, a cooker that would look more at home in a museum and a large wooden table – heavily stained – and uncomfortable-looking chairs.

  ‘So,’ says Rosie, smiling. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Um . . .’ Is she seriously asking me that question? ‘I’m thinking that you’ve gone bloody mad. Where the hell are we?’

  ‘We’re at your digital detox retreat,’ she says, as if I’m the one who’s lost the plot. ‘We’ve got everything you need for it: lack of mobile signal, no technology, isolation . . .’

  I blink rapidly before pinching myself; surely the past twenty-four hours has got to be one big bad dream.

  ‘I thought we were going on some luxury retreat? This place doesn’t even seem like it’s got running water.’

  ‘It does, look,’ she says, running the tap. It splutters out in fits and starts and finally comes out in a small dribble.

  ‘Hot water?’ I ask, not knowing if I want the answer.

  ‘I think so . . . probably.’

  I shriek. ‘Rosie, this is not what I had in mind when I agreed to this! I mean, why on earth have you brought me here? I wanted to go somewhere luxurious for a bit of pampering.’

  ‘I brought some M and S Egyptian cotton bedding with me?’ she says, hopefully. ‘Look, appearances can be deceptive; this place isn’t that bad.’

  ‘What about the people running the detox? Aren’t there supposed to be workshops and activities?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says, nodding. ‘There are. It’s just a sort of low-key place where they send you a pack and you do it yourself.’

  She pulls a wodge of paper from her handbag. ‘Here, look, they emailed me directions and I printed them off at mine.’

  She waves it so quickly that I can’t see what’s written on it, but I don’t need to see what it says to know that I’m not impressed.

  ‘Surely they can’t rent out a place in this state? I know that we’re supposed to be off the grid, but don’t you think we’re at risk of catching pneumonia or Weil’s disease staying here?’ I say, staring at what looks suspiciously like mice poo on the floor.

  ‘It’s part of the process, makes you really appreciate what you have in your life. Come on, it’s not that bad,’ she says, pushing open another door. It swings open and something flies straight into her face.

  ‘Holy shit,’ she says, screaming and waving her arms in the air as it heads in my direction. I quickly drop down under the table until I register the cooing noise and realise it’s just a pigeon.

  She runs over to the front door and leaves it wide open, letting in a cool breeze as she runs around scaring the bejesus out of the pigeon – and me, if I’m honest – until it gets the hint and flies out the front door.

  She slams the door firmly before going into the room the pigeon has just vacated.

  ‘Ta da!’ she says, as if she’s brought me to the Ritz.

  I crawl out from under the table, uncertain of what other surprises lie in store for me.

  While the room, which turns out to be a lounge, is in a better state than the kitchen, it’s still a wreck. It might boast an exposed stone wall and open fireplace, and the rest of the walls look freshly plastered, but the concrete floor and shabby windows let it down. Not to mention the fact that everything has a fresh decoration of pigeon poo and the room smells mustier than wet towels in a gym bag.

  ‘I hope the people you rented this place off aren’t going to deduct money from the damage deposit for the pigeon crap everywhere,’ I say, turning my nose up. Then again, I can’t imagine anyone would even ask for a deposit, as how could we wreck it any more than it already has been?

  ‘Don’t worry about the details,’ she says, going over to pull off an old white dustsheet to reveal two wooden rocking chairs. ‘Huh?’ she says, nodding as if she’s shown me a top-of-the-range La-Z-Boy chair.

  ‘Are there bedrooms?’ I say, dreading what the answer will be.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says in a high-pitched voice that only comes out when she’s trying to hide something. A childhood of playing Monopoly has taught me the clues.

  I push past her and head up the stairs I saw in the corner of the kitchen.

  To my dismay, the upstairs is in much the same state of disrepair as the downstairs. There’s a long soulless hallway with four rooms off it and only one that has a door.

  ‘Where are we supposed to sleep?’ I shriek.

  ‘There,’ she says, pointing to a double airbed on the floor. ‘I brought bedding, remember. And an extra air bed.’

  ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ I say looking at her.

  ‘Of course not, you need to detox and here you are. There’s absolutely nothing to distract you.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that they’re only supposed to ban technology, not all basic comforts.’

  I’m shaking my head. Maybe at a push, if I came somewhere like this with a boyfriend, it could be romantic and a bit of an adventure. But how am I going to cope, being here with Rosie who brings out my irritable side even when we’re at Mum’s clean and warm house and we’re being force fed cake? Surely we’re going to kill each other.

  ‘But what are we supposed to do?’ I say, the panic evident in my voice.

  ‘We’ve got to do all the detoxing stuff. You’ve got to get in touch with your pre-digital self. You know, we’ll do therapy sessions and stuff.’

  ‘So there are actual people here to do that?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I know what I’m doing.’

  There were supposed to be staff and other detoxees to speak to. What the hell are Rosie and I going to talk about with no technology to bridge the silence?

  ‘But what about the hot tub? You said there was a hot tub.’

  ‘Well, there’s this,’ she says, opening up the only door to a room that has one of those old-fashioned Victorian roll-top baths with feet. It’s the only nice feature in the whole house, but I don’t think you’d even be able to enjoy it as the rest of the bathroom is mouldy and damp.

  ‘And if that’s not good enough, there’s a stream at the bottom of the paddock; it’s a bit cold, but I’m sure it would be refreshing.’

  I blink rapidly as if trying to compute all of this.

  ‘So aside from the detoxing
sessions, what are we going to do? We’re going to go crazy up here. Remember when we went on that family holiday to Devon and Mum took away our Gameboys and we nearly killed each other?’

  ‘Yes, I still have the scar on my neck from your nails when you tried to strangle me.’

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine this is going to work out any better.’

  I can’t understand why Rosie is any happier about this situation than I am, it’s not as if she’s raced to come and stay with me in London over the years. Our sibling intolerance is pretty mutual.

  ‘I guess we can enjoy the view,’ she says looking out the window.

  I follow her gaze expecting to be as underwhelmed with it as I have been with the rest of the place, but it takes my breath away.

  ‘Wow, that’s incredible,’ I say, for the first time forgetting about my phone.

  The view of the rolling hills from here is amazing, with all the different hues of green and brown. I eye up the highest point in the distance in particular – I bet I could get mobile signal up there.

  ‘I know, isn’t it breathtaking?’

  She seems lost for a moment, before she sighs. ‘So, now you’re acquainted with the place,’ she says, ‘we should get going on the detox.’

  ‘OK, I’m a bit peckish,’ I say, patting my stomach. ‘Perhaps we could get food first, then do some meditation or whatever else is on offer?’

  ‘We’ve got to have the phone-locking-away ritual before we get started on anything else.’

  I can’t imagine where this crumbling farmhouse will have a safe, but she storms back down the rickety stairs on a mission and I follow. If I’m honest, I’m still a little creeped out by this place and I don’t want to be on my own up here. With its sunken location and isolated feel, it’s perfect for would-be axe murderers. And there was that Big Foot neighbour we saw on the drive in; he looks like he’d be a shoo-in for a role in the Cumbrian Chainsaw Massacre.

  I’m reminded of when we were little kids, when Rosie and I still played with each other; she would always be the ringleader. She’d usually lead me into mischief that would land me in trouble. It wasn’t until I got to my teenage years that I stopped going along with her hare-brained schemes, and that’s when we drifted apart.

  As we walk down the creaky floorboards I’m wondering if I’m repeating a childhood pattern of following Rosie on another one of her foolhardy plans. After all, I’d expected her to bring me to something organised, with staff at our beck and call, and instead we’ve ended up in some dilapidated farmhouse that I’m sure is only days away from a full-scale spider takeover, if the cobwebs are anything to go by.

  ‘Do you think we might be more comfortable in that pub in the village? I’m pretty sure it said on the sign that it had rooms,’ I say, as we find ourselves back in the ramshackle kitchen. It looks even more depressing than when I first saw it.

  ‘We’ll be fine here. Where’s your sense of adventure gone?’ she says enthusiastically. ‘You used to love camping when you were little.’

  ‘Um, yes, I did, back when I didn’t realise that en suites, feather duvets or fancy hotels existed.’

  Rosie rolls her eyes at me and, seemingly ignoring my protests, picks up my phone and hers and drops them into Tupperware that she’s pulled out of her bag.

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ I ask.

  She’s still got that wild glint in her eye and that phone is worth quite a bit of money. I’ve pretty much accepted that I won’t be able to use it while I’m here, but that doesn’t mean I want her to burn it in some sacrificial ritual.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, pulling the old front door open and marching purposefully out.

  ‘It’s only a phone, it’s only a phone,’ I say over and over in order to remind myself that it’s a small piece of plastic and not an actual living entity. Although it does nothing to ease my apprehension.

  She comes to a halt beside a well.

  ‘Oh no, you’re not putting it down there,’ I say shaking my head. ‘That’s full of water, it’ll ruin the phone.’

  ‘Relax, apparently the well’s empty and the box is airtight – it’ll protect it from the elements.’

  Before I can stop her, she’s put the Tupperware into a bucket that, with all the holes it’s got, looks as though it should belong to Liza and Henry, and she starts to lower it down.

  I go to yank her arm away from the handle but she pushes me away. I decide to bide my time instead. I’ll come along and pull it up later on. In fact, this is infinitely better than a safe as at least I’ll have access to it.

  I chuckle to myself at my sister making such a rookie mistake. It’s so unlike her. Perhaps the only reason her plans seemed brilliant when we were kids was because I was three years younger than her.

  ‘Right,’ says Rosie, pulling a penknife out of her pocket. ‘It’s time for you to cut the cord.’

  I look at her in horror. Surely not?

  ‘Your iPhone addiction is holding you back, it’s time that you regained your life balance,’ she says in a level-headed voice, despite the fact that she’s suggesting something utterly ridiculous. ‘In order to fully reconnect with yourself and fully embrace mindfulness, you’ve got to let go.’

  ‘What?’ I say, looking at her spouting all this claptrap.

  ‘Come on, it’s what the people who designed the detox said to do. Apparently, if you want to do this properly, you’ve got to empower yourself and let go. But think about it. That phone is the reason why your life is in such a mess. If you weren’t so used to banging out social media updates every minute of the day, you’d probably have taken the time to consider what you were writing and where.’

  The stupid thing is that I know she’s right, but it doesn’t make what she’s suggesting any less painful.

  ‘Now, are you going to cut or am I?’

  She holds out the knife, which is a risky strategy as, right now, I’m pretty sure I value my phone more than my sister. ‘But how will we ever get them out again?’

  This is all going a bit Lord of the Flies for my liking.

  ‘Ah, don’t worry. The people have a plan for that. I’ll be able to get it back out when the time is right, don’t fret.’

  I wonder just who these sadistic people are to have designed this. First we’re staying in a falling-down wreck and then we’re throwing away our lifelines down an abandoned well. It has all the hallmarks of being the opening to a horror movie.

  I look deep into my sister’s eyes, and for some reason, just as I did when I was a kid, I feel compelled to do what she says. Maybe the emotional turmoil of the day has taken its toll, but whatever it is, I take the knife from her and slowly cut the cord.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this.’

  I watch the strands snap one by one and I wince.

  ‘You’ll feel better when it’s done. You’ll be freeing yourself.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do. Trust me, in a week’s time, you’ll be begging me to keep your phone down the well.’

  She says it in the all-knowing way she used to use when we were kids to prove her role of older sister.

  ‘I doubt that,’ I say, as the thought reaches my brain that this is actually happening, that my phone is going to be physically separated from me for one whole week, but before I can do anything about it, the last strand snaps and the bucket falls down the well and lands at the bottom with a big thud.

  ‘Great job,’ says Rosie, in a mock American accent. She takes the knife away from me, which is a pretty astute decision as the magnitude of what I’ve just done hits me.

  ‘Are you sure the people have a plan of how I can get that back? It’s got all my photos on it, all my music,’ I say starting to hyperventilate.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘That’ll be all backed up on your iCloud.’

  That wasn’t quite the reassurance I was after.

  ‘I can’t believe you did it,’ she says.

  ‘Did I have
a choice?’ I ask, almost lunging myself down the well to retrieve it.

  Rosie pulls me back, ‘No, but I thought you’d put up a fight. Maybe you won’t have as much of a problem with this after all.’

  She walks back towards the main house and I’m sure I hear a small giggle carrying in the wind, but I don’t follow her. I’m adrift, staring into the darkness of the well, looking at my lost love. With my hand outstretched towards it, I start to wonder when a shiny bit of plastic became the closest thing I had to love?

  Rosie’s right, I do need to do this detox.

  Chapter Seven

  Time since last Internet usage: 2 hours, 46 minutes and 40 seconds

  ‘I can totally cope,’ I say, laughing a little manically. ‘I’m unplugged, I’m free, and I’m totally fine.’

  I try to pretend I’m A-OK that I’ve just thrown my life down a well, but as I shrug my shoulders, I find that they’ve practically lodged themselves at my earlobes. I now see why meditation and yoga feature so heavily in detoxes.

  Rosie places a pan of water on one of the hobs on an ancient cooker that looks like it should be condemned.

  ‘How long’s it been?’ I ask, thinking back to the well incident that seems like a lifetime ago.

  ‘Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds,’ says Rosie, glancing at her expensive watch.

  ‘Oh,’ I say a little deflated. Seven minutes is quite a long time in the world of Twitter; I’m sure that would equate to around a hundred tweets on my feed. God knows how many of those would be in relation to #priceless.

  But hey, I might have only lasted seven minutes so far, yet in those seven minutes I’ve been all right. I haven’t thrown myself down the well or run to the nearest village.

  ‘I didn’t even think to bring a watch, I always use my phone to tell the time,’ I say, pointing at my sister’s wrist. I don’t want to be asking her what the time is every seven minutes.

  ‘We’ll pop it on the list, I’m going to have to go shopping tomorrow anyway.’

  My heart starts to race a little. Shopping. The outside world. I know that I’ve been at this old farm for less than an hour, but already I feel desperate to get back to civilisation.