Being Arcadia

by Simon Chesterman

  “Actually you gave me the answer yourself,” she says. “Stand on your head and look at the problem.”

  Frowning, Henry crouches down and is about to put his head on the carpet.

  “Not literally,” she tuts. “Just imagine you were looking at the sequence upside down. ‘16, 06, 68, 88, __, 98’ becomes ‘86, __, 88, 89, 90, 91’. So the answer is ‘87’, which you can write upside down as ‘L8’.”

  Henry’s mouth forms a silent “O”. She should be more generous: it was he who first worked out that the flexible magnet could reach down the drain of the washbasin and retrieve the key.

  Now there is just one puzzle left. The storyline that Dr. Bell explained to them, setting up the game, was that they were secret agents seeking to disarm a nuclear bomb and then escape from the hotel room before enemy agents arrived. A somewhat implausible scenario, but justifying a series of challenges without requiring additional real estate.

  Having dealt with the bomb, they must now work out how to leave the room. The symbols above the bed are the key:

  The same symbols appear on five buttons next to the door, which is held shut by an electromagnetic lock. Adjacent to the buttons, an emergency release offers a simpler exit from the room—but concedes defeat in the game. Above the buttons are three lights.

  Henry presses one button at random, earning a beep. He then presses a second, and a third. On the fifth button a buzzer sounds and the first light glows red. So, five buttons to press but in a precise order. The first of the three lights stays illuminated.

  “I think that’s enough guessing, Henry,” she says. “We get three tries at this and that was the first.”

  On the walkway above them, she knows, Dr. Bell is smiling. He knows the solution and is seeing how long it takes her to work it out.

  Five buttons. More than three thousand possible combinations, fewer—one hundred and twenty—if each button is to be pressed only once. But they only have two more attempts.

  “I’ve got it!” cries Henry. “It’s the number of straight lines. It goes from zero to one, then two, then four, then five.” Triumphant, and before she can stop him, he presses the buttons in sequence:

  A buzzer sounds twice; a second red light illuminates.

  “Two strikes, Miss Arcadia,” Dr. Bell intones above them. “You would do well to choose carefully next time.”

  She has also considered the straight lines briefly, and the number of angles, enclosed areas, and other geometric features. But the theme has been lateral thinking. What does it mean to think laterally? Adopting an indirect or creative approach, as opposed to solving a problem logically; looking at it from a different perspective? Edward de Bono made a small industry out of telling people to think using six coloured hats, each representing a different aspect from which a problem might be approached.

  Yet “lateral” simply means from the side. So what would it mean to look at this question sideways?

  Again she smiles, approaching the keypad.

  “Arcadia,” Henry says quietly, hesitating before stepping aside. “Are you sure you’ve got it? I mean, of course you’re sure—but are you actually right?”

  “You worry too much, Henry,” she replies. She presses the buttons in the correct order:

  Instead of a buzzer, the lock emits a single beep and the three lights turn green.

  “Well done again, Miss Arcadia,” Dr. Bell says. Seeing Henry’s evident confusion, he adds: “Might you explain the solution to your friend? I thought it was a rather clever use of lateral thinking.”

  Henry is frowning at the symbols and holds up a hand. “Give me a second.” Then he uses the same hand to slap himself in the forehead. “Of course—lateral thinking, sideways. Each of these figures is symmetrical, a mirror image of itself. Take the right half of each and you get 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.”

  She resists the urge to congratulate him as it will sound patronising. “Exactly,” is all she says.

  Gentleman that he is, Henry reaches forward to open the door for her and then his frown returns. It opened easily when they came in, but the magnetic lock has not disengaged. He leans against the door but it is solid wood and does not move.

  “Is there a problem?” Dr. Bell enquires from his perch.

  “The door release appears to be jammed,” she replies, trying the handle herself. The lights above the button are shining a steady green but the door remains locked.

  “Now that’s odd,” Dr. Bell says. He turns to pull a lever on the side of the walkway. There is the sound of a latch being released and the scrape of metal on metal as a narrow set of retractable stairs is lowered from the elevated platform. Gasping, he climbs down the steps, catches his breath, and then joins them at the door.

  He pushes the buttons in the correct sequence once again. Again the lights glow green, there is a single beep, but the door remains locked.

  “How strange,” Dr. Bell murmurs to himself. “It has worked impeccably all day. Perhaps there is a bug in the system. Ah well.” Sighing, he presses the emergency release and gestures for Henry to try the door.

  The two-second alarm that rings covers the sound of footsteps on the metal walkway, but it fades before the clanking of the stairs being raised has subsided. Henry is still trying in vain to open the door when she taps him on the shoulder to turn around.

  “What?” Henry says, looking at her and Dr. Bell before following their gaze up to the walkway. Colour drains from his face as he registers the person standing there. “Oh God, not again.”

  “Hello to you too, sweetie-pie. Did you miss me?” The voice is hers and yet not hers; accelerated slightly, like the movements of the figure, clad entirely in black, that now paces above them. The figure is also hers and not hers; the same shape but moving in jerks, twitches of nervous energy being released. The other her blows a kiss towards Henry, who shifts as if to dodge its impact.

  “Hello, Moira,” Arcadia says at last. “Long time no see.”

  She has met Moira only once before. On that occasion, her twin sister shot her with a tranquiliser dart, tied her to a chair, threatened to suffocate her with a plastic bag, and then pointed a loaded gun at her head. Apart from that, the encounter went well.

  The other her grins. “Indeed! So, welcome to my Hotel California, Arky. If you had paid more attention to the song, you would have known that you can check out any time you like—but you can never leave.”

  It was Moira who strapped the bomb to Dr. Bell that almost blew up the John Radcliffe Hospital. Having escaped from the laboratory in which she was part of a genetic experiment, her plan had initially been to assume Arcadia’s identity and remove any evidence of her own existence. On each occasion, however, she had given Arcadia a chance to cheat death, or to prove her worthiness. But worthiness for what?

  “Not drinking today?” Arcadia asks. Keeping Moira in conversation seemed to rein in some of her more homicidal tendencies. At their previous meeting, the other her carried a bottle of fluids that she needed to drink regularly—electrolytes, beta-blockers, and something called DHA—or else her brain would begin to shut down. Eventually, she would die.

  Moira taps her arm. “My variation on the nicotine patch. A slow release of all the goodies I need to start my day right. That and an apple a day keep the doctor away. But you have to throw the apple fairly hard.” The other her laughs to herself. “It’s always apples, isn’t it, Dr. Bell?”

  Dr. Bell is looking at her curiously. “Am I to understand,” he says to Arcadia, “that this is the girl who nearly killed us a year ago? Your twin?”

  “I didn’t know she was my twin at the time,” Arcadia replies.

  “Oh, so we’re playing it like that, are we?” Moira interrupts. “You know, Arky, they say the Devil’s greatest trick is persuading you that he doesn’t exist. The problem is that people are so gullible. Just think how dim the average person is—and half of them are even dumber than that!”

  Why is Moira here, why now? After the aborted—or abandoned—attem
pts to kill Arcadia a year ago, the other her disappeared. On the same day, one of the scientists who ran the laboratory in which Moira had been imprisoned died when his car exploded. Though there was clearly foul play, the police have no leads as to who killed Lysander Starr or why. It is possible that Moira had planted the bomb—she certainly had a motive—but a simple detonation lacked… flair.

  “So,” continues Moira, “you must be wondering why I’m here. I can hear the wheels in your brain spinning even at this distance.”

  As she moves on the walkway, a backpack slung over one shoulder swings beside her. Like her dress and the beret under which her hair is gathered, it is black. Add a lazily held Gauloise and she might pass for an aspiring French intellectual. Moira’s words reflect her talent for mimicry; perhaps that now extends to fashion also.

  Keep her talking. “Indeed,” Arcadia says, “because it looks like you were enjoying your time in Paris.”

  Moira grins again. The stage lights make her face shine—is she sweating? But she is also pleased. “Oh très bien, Arky, vachement bien! You carry on demonstrating that you are more than just a bag of hammers. And when I heard that you were applying to Oxford, I thought to myself: Arky needs a memorable admissions test. Not the tedious interviews and written papers, but something that really does test you. Like the German philosopher with the whip says: that which does not kill us, makes us stronger. So I’d like to give you a test that really will make you stronger—because if you fail it, you die.”

  Something that is nearly fatal seems more likely to leave you weakened rather than strengthened—but it does not seem prudent to point that out to Moira right now.

  “I can illustrate,” the other her says, “with a story. Once upon a time, there was a teenage girl stranded on an island covered by forest. No Gilligan, no professor and Mary Ann, just the girl and her forest. On a day that a strong east wind is blowing, lightning strikes the easternmost point of the island and starts a fire. The flames devour everything in their path, fanned by the breeze and moving from east to west. The girl’s island is two kilometres across; in two hours, the entire island will be consumed and the girl with it. The only beach is on the eastern tip and impossible to reach. The rest of the coast is cliffs or jagged rocks, so she cannot jump into the water, either.”

  Moira pauses for dramatic effect. “But the girl has read her Nietzsche and her will to live is strong. So how does she survive?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Henry says, pulling out his phone. “I’m calling the cops.”

  Arcadia puts her hand on his arm. “Wait a minute, Henry,” she whispers. “I don’t see any harm playing along with this game.” With the door locked, there is also no escape other than past Moira.

  Beside her, Dr. Bell shifts uneasily. Yet at the same time he, too, seems intrigued by the problem. “I assume, young lady”—he clears his throat—“that our protagonist cannot call for help, and that there is no convenient stream to divert and thus extinguish the fire?”

  Moira resumes pacing, one arm checking something in the backpack. “You assume correctly.”

  “What about a chainsaw?” Henry pipes up. “With a chainsaw she could cut a firebreak.”

  “There is no chainsaw,” Moira replies. “Nor is there a fire hydrant, flame-resistant clothing, hydrogel, or a convenient hatch into a mysterious fireproof tunnel. Nothing. Just her wits.”

  Henry sniffs. “How has she been surviving on this island if she doesn’t even have food and water?”

  “Once again, Henry demonstrates all the intellectual sharpness of a mashed potato,” says Moira, rolling her eyes. “Fine. She has all of that and a partridge in a pear tree—on the eastern side of the island. Now, can we get back to her imminent incineration?”

  “She should start her own fire,” Arcadia says quietly. “Use matches if she has them, or else take a branch to the edge of the current blaze and light it. Then run with it to the western side of the island. The wind will keep the new fire moving west, so if she can burn the trees on that side, once that fire is out she can shelter there when the original fire approaches.”

  “Oh bravo, Arky!” Moira seems genuinely pleased. “I am so glad I didn’t kill you the last time we met. Normally, when I miss someone—which is rare—I take another shot and hit them the second time. But life without you would be like a broken pencil: pointless.”

  “This is all very interesting,” says Henry, “but I suppose we should be getting on our way now. Nice seeing you, Moira, I guess. Thanks for not shooting me today.”

  “Please don’t rush off, sweetie-pie,” Moira calls. The forlorn tone in her voice hardens quickly: “Oh, that’s right. You can’t, because I’ve locked the door and have the only key. But you’re right that this scene is dragging a little and so it’s time to move on to our final game.”

  Moira points to the keypad next to the door. “You’re familiar now with the good Dr. Bell’s house of mirrors numerical system. Entertaining but a little—elementary, don’t you think? I’ve edited the system that controls the lock so that you have one more task to complete.” Again, the other her adjusts the backpack on her shoulder and then takes out a bottle.

  “For this game,” Moira continues, “we need three volunteers. Let’s call them… Dr. Bell, Arky, and Henry. They are standing in a line and Dr. Bell is looking at Arky, but Arky is making cow eyes at Henry. As for Henry, he’s staring blankly into space. Now, a key part of the game is that in this universe everyone is either guilty or innocent. Let’s say—just for the purposes of argument—that Dr. Bell is guilty, but Henry is innocent. And your question is a simple one: is someone who is guilty looking at someone who is not?”

  This is about more than just making admission to Oxford memorable. In her own peculiar way, Moira is trying to communicate something to her. But what? The bottle in her twin’s hand is unlike the one she drank from when they last met. And it appears to have something sticking out of the top.

  “Can I really not call the cops?” Henry whispers, a little too loudly. “She’s obviously mad.”

  “‘A madness most discreet,’” Moira replies. “‘A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.’” Seeing his puzzled expression, the other her explains: “That was Shakespeare, Henry. Romeo and Juliet? You should read it one day. I was quoting Romeo and intimating that my outward appearance of mental disorganisation might be due to a romantic sentiment.”

  Henry’s frown contradicts his nodding. “Oh, I see,” he says, not seeing.

  “Lighten up, Henry!” Moira replies, cheerily. “As they say: laughter is the best medicine.” Then she frowns. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. Not if you’ve got syphilis, for example. If you’ve got syphilis you’re much better off with penicillin than with laughter.” The other her pauses, train of thought apparently derailed. One hand holds the bottle with the cloth sticking out of the top, the other reaches into the bag and produces a cigarette lighter.

  And then the flow of words resumes: “Anyhow, as I was saying, is a guilty person looking at an innocent person? You have one chance to answer and three choices: yes, no, or it’s impossible to know. I suppose you do have a fourth option, which is not to tell me. But I’ll just take that as the wrong answer and, well, you know how that goes.”

  The walls of the fake hotel room are wood and plasterboard. Difficult to smash through, but she and Henry might be able to use the furniture to climb out. Harder for Dr. Bell.

  Moira has paused again, not due to confusion but in the manner of the host of a reality television programme. “So if your answer is ‘yes’, you press 1 on the keypad by the door. If it’s ‘no’, you press 2. And if you decide it is impossible to know, you press 3. Correct answer opens the door. Anything else locks it and throws away the key.” The other her regards the cigarette lighter. “Filthy habit, but the lighters are irresistible for those pyromaniacs among us.” A practised flick of her thumb and a spark ignites the butane gas. An inch of flame now rises from her hand.

 
; “I thought about giving you a time limit, but that’s so been-there, done-that. Instead, I thought we could each estimate how long it will take for this pretend hotel room to burn to the ground. I’m afraid I don’t think the fire marshals would be very impressed with this place, especially since the carpet has been doused with naphtha.”

  Moira now brings the lighter to the cloth sticking out of the bottle. It ignites immediately, probably soaked in alcohol or kerosene to serve as a wick. And when the bottle smashes, whatever is inside—petrol?—will spread the fire.

  The other her lifts the bottle above her head, raising an eyebrow also. “Ready?”

  “Oh no you don’t.” Beside her, Henry is preparing to do something rash. He still holds the phone with which he had planned to call the police, now being considered for one final missive.

  “Henry,” she begins, but his arm has already wound back and it is too late to stop him.

  Thrown with force, the phone appears to travel a straight line towards Moira. Its true path would be a parabola with some adjustment for air resistance, but evolution and Henry’s years of playing cricket mean that his aim is accurate even without using differential calculus. It hits the other her in the shoulder—was he aiming at her head?—knocking her sideways and causing her to drop the Molotov cocktail.

  Henry’s pleasure at hitting his target is evident, a small “Yes!” issuing from his lips. But the bottle falling from Moira’s upstretched hand lands on the metal walkway and smashes. The liquid inside spreads across and through the platform, igniting a curtain of flame.

  Standing in the middle of it, the other her stumbles as if confused. As she turns, her dress weaves in and out of the orange tongues. Fire needs oxygen, fuel, and heat. In seconds, the temperature of the cotton rises to the point that it, too, ignites. Tendrils of flame now rise up Moira’s back as she raises her hands to cover her face. Surrounded by an aura of incandescence, she moves sideways but that only increases the oxygen supply, fanning the flames.