CONNECTED

by Denman, Simon

Peter looked on, as the blue-grey tendrils rose and dissipated in the gentle breeze. The aroma was sweet and unusually pleasant. He had never been a real smoker, but had enjoyed the occasional cigar when younger. In the end though, Abigail had kicked up such a fuss, he had decided the pleasure was not worth the aggravation.

  “You know what? That actually smells pretty good. What tobacco do you use?”

  Doug pulled out the pouch from his pocket and showed it to him. “Are you sure you don't want one? I rolled a few on the way up – here.”

  Peter eyed the roll-up for a moment. “What the hell! Why not?” he finally said. The nicotine hit him like a train. “Whoa!” he gasped, feeling dizzy, but strangely euphoric.

  “Thank you!” he said, and then coughed.

  Doug laughed, “Yeah, it'll do that, if you haven't smoked for a while.”

  He looked at Peter for a moment. “Did Martin show any signs - you know – depression - before he died?”

  Peter took a long drag and exhaled slowly. “According to my sister-in-law, he was very distant. You know, lights on – no one at home - kind of distant. Not miserable, but kind of obsessed...” he trailed off.

  “Obsessed with Dream-Zone?”

  Peter stopped, pursed his lips, and frowned. “Yes, I think that was probably it.”

  Rows of flower-beds extended either side of the path. Peter bent down to read one of the memorial markers, then continued. “So how was Kal in the final days?”

  “Absolutely no change! If anything, he appeared happier and more excited than usual. He even sent me a text a few hours before he died inviting me to check out the latest file.”

  “The Dream-Zone combo file?”

  “I assume that's what it was.” Doug paused, looking thoughtful. “Look, I've been thinking. Do you still think it's wise for us to try and recreate that thing – given what happened to Kal and Martin? I mean, we don't really know what happened, but can we take the risk?”

  The thought had been hanging at the back of Peter's mind for some time now, growing bigger, darker and uglier every day. “I just don't feel as though I have any option.”

  Doug was still looking at him as though he clearly didn't consider this to be an adequate response.

  “Have you ever heard of Plato's allegory of the cave?” asked Peter suddenly.

  “Can't say that I have.”

  “Well basically, there are these prisoners who, for their entire lives, have been chained up in a cave in such a way, that all they can see is this blank wall in front of them. Far behind them is a huge fire and in front of that, an elevated walk way. Various people, animals and objects pass over the walkway and cast shadows on the wall. Since the prisoners have never seen anything except the shadows, they perceive these as real things. Even the sounds from the walkway echo off the wall, and therefore appear to come from the shadows themselves. For the prisoners, the shadows are reality, and they are content with that perspective.”

  “Sounds like a pretty miserable life to me,” said Doug.

  “To us yes, but don't forget, these poor guys have never known any different, so they have no awareness of the limitations of their existence. They even pride themselves on their ability to accurately predict which shadows might come next, based on their understanding of the world as they know it.”

  “Okay, I see what you're saying. Kind of like nobody complaining about black and white TV before the first colour sets came out.”

  “Exactly, so anyway, one day, one of these prisoners is released and shown the walkway. At first, he refuses to believe that these strange three-dimensional forms have any relevance – you know - to what he considers the true nature of things, as represented in the shadows he has spent his whole life observing. When he's shown the fire, he feels blinded by the intensity of the light and fearful from the lack of familiar shadows in his field of vision. He desperately wants things back the way they were – comforting and familiar, but instead, he's dragged, kicking and screaming, up and out of the cave, and into bright sunlight. Initially of course, he finds this even more terrifying. However, after a while, his eyes become accustomed to the increased levels of light, and gradually he starts to appreciate this new and infinitely richer perspective on the world. Next, Plato invites you to imagine that the prisoner returns to the cave to try and set his former inmates free.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said Doug, beginning to understand where this was leading.

  “Well yes, you'd think so, except that they don't want to come. They say that his mind has been poisoned by his trip outside the cave. They think he's crazy, and refuse to be led away from what they believe to be true and real.”

  “Surely you're not saying that Dream-Zone will release us from our chains, and allow us to experience a truer realm of existence than we currently know? Man, that's some pretty heavy shit!”

  “Well, no, I don't know, but don't you get the feeling that it's unlocking something amazing?”

  “Yeah, but drug addicts say the same thing and look where it gets them.” He felt like adding look where it got Kal and Martin, but he stopped himself. “All we really know is that it sends you into a kind of trance and can give rise to some pretty whacky dreams.”

  “Oh come on Doug, is that really all you think it is? What about the way you can remember obscure stuff that you haven't used in years? Are you telling me you haven't noticed that?”

  Doug remembered the way he had finished his computing assignment in forty-five minutes flat. Maybe some of his other peaks of productivity could be attributed to Dream-Zone also. “Okay, so at best, it might offer a kind of all-access pass to your own memory, but that's hardly the same thing as gaining a whole new perspective on the world.”

  “No, it isn't. But it's still pretty amazing - and having caught a glimpse of what the separate stimuli are capable of, I know I'll never be content now until I find out what the combination can do.”

  “It certainly is very intriguing.” admitted Doug. “I couldn't believe how similar the effects are considering that the audio and visuals were created totally independently.”

  “I know, I would love to discover what was actually going on inside our brains when it happens.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of the chapel door opening and the relieved chatter of the congregation as they filed out of the small dark building into the daylight and fresh cool air. Brian and Susan had spotted them, and were approaching hand in hand with smiles on their faces.

  “Do they know about Dream-Zone by the way?” asked Peter, keeping his voice low.

  “Not really. Brian saw the original fractal patterns, but we haven't talked about it much since. He's not really into maths or science.”

  “Probably best to keep it that way for now.”

  “Definitely. But you take care!”

  “Thanks, I will - but I really don't think there's any danger to us. As long as we're careful, we should have the ability to understand this thing - to learn from it – use it to our advantage.”

  “I hope you're right. By the way, did you manage to download that data recovery tool all right?”

  “Yes - thanks, that was a smart idea. Don't know why I didn't think of it myself.”

  “There you see, Dream-Zone can't be all that good, or you would have!” Doug said with a laugh.

  “Hey there Dougy, how are you feeling dude?” asked Brian, looking far too cheerful for the circumstances.

  “Much better thanks! You two look happy. Were they serving drinks in there or something?”

  Brian and Susan glanced at each other and grinned.

  “Well it was very nice to meet you all,” said Peter. “But I better get off if I'm going to reach the lakes by dinner time.”

  They wandered back to the car-park and said their goodbyes.

  “Be careful!” shouted Doug.

  Peter waved and drove off.

  CHAPTER 11

  The narrow country lane unfurled out of the moonless night and into the full xenon
beams of the speeding Volvo. By day, the thick rambling hedgerows bordering the road to The Fields concealed oncoming vehicles as effectively as the abundance of wildlife they supported. By night however, assuming other road-users possessed headlights of similar intensity, Peter's current speed was somewhat less reckless.

  Despite having left the crematorium soon after three, he had run into heavy traffic on the M6 just south of Manchester. A lorry had jack-knifed on the northbound carriageway causing a six car pile-up and a six-mile jam. He had phoned Isabelle to inform her that the earlier estimate of six o'clock was likely to be out by at least an hour. In the end, after subsequently becoming embroiled in Manchester's Friday night rush hour, he had updated this estimate to nine o'clock. It was now almost ten and he was both tired and hungry.

  Eventually the spot-lit yews marking the entrance to Isabelle's driveway loomed out of the darkness ahead. The slow continuous crunch of tyres on gravel, after so long at the wheel, was suddenly one of the most comforting sounds Peter could imagine. As he reached the end of the pergola, Isabelle was already standing at the front door, wearing an apron and smiling warmly.

  “Sorry I'm so late,” he said, getting out and retrieving his holdall from the boot. Making his way towards the house, his excitement at seeing Isabelle again was almost matched by his appetite, as welcoming beefy aromas wafted from the doorway.

  “Something smells delicious,” said Peter, hugging Isabelle tightly and pecking her on each cheek in true Parisian style.

  “I'm wearing the same perfume as always,” she replied innocently.

  Peter stepped back awkwardly. “Oh, well...actually...”

  “I'm teasing you!” she said immediately with a little laugh, “I know you meant the beef stew.”

  “Very good!” said Peter. “Beef stew eh! If only we had a decent claret to wash it down. Oh, wait a moment, what's this?” He reached into the holdall by his feet and handed her a bottle of Châteaux Margaux.

  After dumping his overnight things in the spare room, he joined Isabelle in the kitchen where she stood spooning the stew onto a pair of large, blue-glazed plates. The wine stood opened on the table with two Bordeaux glasses and a plate of slightly burnt jacket potatoes.

  “Perfect! Thank you so much for this,” said Peter, taking a seat, and smiling gratefully, as Isabelle set the plates on the table. “I've had nothing but a tuna sandwich all day, and I'm absolutely famished.”

  He poured an inch of wine into each of the glasses, held one up to the light, and then took in the bouquet.

  “So how are Abigail and the children?” asked Isabelle, taking off the apron, and joining him at the table. “Pleased to have you back home I expect.”

  “Oh, you know, life goes on,” he said, depositing a knob of butter onto one of the jacket potatoes. “They seem to manage just fine whether I'm there or not actually.”

  “Nonsense. I'm sure they miss you like anything,” she said with a thin smile.

  Peter looked down at his plate. “Yes, I'm sure you're right,” he murmured with little conviction. He raised his glass and looked up, forcing a smile. ”Cheers!”, he said, trying to sound more positive.

  “Santé!” she echoed, as they chinked glasses and took a sip. “Very nice wine, thank you Peter.”

  “Yes, not bad is it. I wasn't sure of the vintage. I've found Margaux can vary quite a lot, but this was obviously a decent year.” Peter wondered why he was drivelling on about wine vintages. Looking back, few of his conversations with Isabelle had ever amounted to much more than small-talk, and yet somehow, over the years, so much more had been communicated. Once again he felt torn. Part of him wanted to openly address the burning topic of their kiss the previous week, while another part was more than happy to adhere to acceptable communication protocol between two independently married adults.

  Isabelle just nodded thoughtfully. “Roger asked after you,” she said after a few moments. “Think he was rather hoping you might join him for another pint sometime. You obviously made an impression.”

  “Hoping to shepherd me back into the fold, most likely.”

  “That's a bit cynical of you Peter,” she said reproachfully.

  “No, don't get me wrong, I like the guy. We actually had quite an interesting chat the other night, but of course, being a man of the cloth, he had to have a go.”

  “What, so you ended debating the existence of God over pints of beer?” she laughed.

  “Well yes, I suppose we did a bit - but it stayed pretty friendly.”

  “He's quite liberal in his views, isn't he,” she said with a smile.

  “That's certainly one way of putting it. Rather than defending the Church's traditional ground, as science gradually erodes more of the mysteries that once stood as justification for belief, he seems happy to redraw the front line as many times as necessary.”

  “Just because something can't be seen or measured scientifically, it doesn't make it any less real. What about beauty - music...” she paused, “...or love? Science can never explain these things. Why can't we just say that God is like that?”

  “It depends how you define 'real'. Perception of something or someone as beautiful is an emotional response with evolutionary roots.”

  “I don't know, I can see how finding a person beautiful might have evolved, but what about the natural beauty of a landscape for example? That sense of awe when we look at a beautiful sunset, a beautiful painting or listen to beautiful music. How could that have evolved?”

  Peter thought for a moment. “Well, let's take the case of the landscape first. If you consider the sorts of scenery we find beautiful – mountains, lakes, green hills etcetera, these also tend to be places that would have been good for man's survival. Going back to our earlier ancestors millions of years ago, before they had the mental capacity to consider what practical factors would make a good site to camp on, I can imagine how a tendency to gravitate towards areas of natural beauty would have been favoured over those who chose some barren desert of a place.”

  Isabelle was silent for a few moments. “Okay, clever-clogs, I admit that almost makes sense, but what about love - the excitement, exhilaration, yearning we feel for another human soul. Are you saying that's just an accident of evolution too?”

  “Accident no, but evolution? Most definitely yes. Human babies need looking after for a relatively long time compared to most other animals. Babies whose parents stay together for that time are more likely to survive. Genes that increase the strength of the emotional bond between parents will therefore be passed down through generations.”

  “But that makes it sound so cold and calculating.”

  “Not to me. Understanding why we love one another doesn't make it any less real or any less wonderful. If anything, it makes it more so. Just because I choose logic and reason over religion and superstition doesn't mean that I refuse to acknowledge the existence of emotion and abstract concepts such as beauty and love.”

  Isabelle leant back in her chair, as her frown turned into an admiring, though still slightly begrudging smile. “No wonder Roger wanted another pint with you,” she said, “It's probably been a long time since anyone around here actually challenged him in a way he could respect.”

  “Yes well, I actually wouldn't mind doing it again sometime, but unfortunately, as I said, I have to be back by lunchtime tomorrow.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It's really too bad you have to head back so soon. Such a lot of driving, you'll be exhausted, you poor thing.” She put her hand on his forearm, and he clasped it gently under his own.

  “I really wish I could stay longer, but apparently we invited this awful couple round months ago and there would be hell to pay if I were to now leave Abigail to face them on her own.”

  “What's so awful about them?” She asked with a chuckle.

  “Oh, they're just so arrogant, shallow and boring. Actually, he's arrogant, shallow and boring - she's all of that, but with an added nasty streak.”

  “Surely t
hey're not that bad.”

  “No really, they are! He's some star salesman for a menswear supplier and she's the tyrannical manager of one of those hideous call centres. I call them the empty suit and the poison dwarf, respectively.”

  “I suppose that's one of the problems with getting married,” she said with a sigh. “It's not enough just for one of you to like them. I assume they were Abigail's friends?”

  “Yes, she used to work with the poison dwarf. I suppose it's natural for a married couple to occasionally find that friends of one are less appreciated by the other, but these two are particularly obnoxious. Unfortunately though, unless I'm there to welcome them into my home tomorrow, my life, for the foreseeable future, will not be worth living.”

  “Of course, I understand. Just seems like a long way to come for some silly computer files. Are you sure I couldn't have emailed them to you?”

  “That's very kind of you, but no... it's tricky ...some of them were accidentally deleted and now I have to use some special software to get them off the PC.”

  Of course, he had lied to Isabelle about the true nature of the files. He had told her they were part of a proposal he had been asked to update for a client. When it came to lying, Peter's strategy was always to stay as close to the truth as possible and provide more accurate details than were strictly necessary to convey the essential information. It was a technique he had developed to avoid unnecessary confrontations with Abigail, and over the years he had become rather skilled at it. By staying close to the truth, he could just about make himself believe that it actually was the truth. This meant that any non-verbal communication cues which might otherwise betray the discomfort of deceit, would be more consistent with verisimilitude.

  “Well, personally, of course, I'm very glad you did come,” she said.

  “Me too,” said Peter, holding her gaze just a little too long.

  By the time they had finished loading the dishwasher and tidying up the kitchen, it was eleven thirty and sleep was dragging heavily on Peter's mind and body. He had wanted to retrieve the files from Martin's PC before going to bed, but he could no longer summon the motivation.