CONNECTED

by Denman, Simon

  “Fancy a quick nightcap?” asked Isabelle, taking a bottle of Cognac from the cupboard and waving it at him invitingly.

  “Just a quick one perhaps.”

  She produced a couple of snifters, and they retired to the living room.

  “So what time do you need to leave in the morning?” she asked, sitting down tiredly on the sofa and filling the glasses.

  “Well, I reckon I can get away with showing up in Bracknell by 1pm. That would mean leaving here about 8:30.”

  He sat down beside her and sipped the brandy.

  “What if you run into more traffic on the way down.”

  “Shouldn't be too bad on a Saturday morning, but if I do, then I suppose I'll just have to be late,” he said with a grin.

  She grinned back. “Breakfast at eight then?

  “That would be lovely. I'll get up a bit earlier so I can pull those files off.”

  She looked down at the brandy glass, cradled in the palm of her hand, and circling slowly. “Listen, about last week...” she started.

  “It's okay,” he interrupted softly. “There's no need to say anything. You were upset and feeling vulnerable, that's all.”

  She looked at him, her large brown eyes starting to mist. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, taking another sip of brandy instead. “You're right, I'm sorry I brought it up again.”

  Peter placed his glass on the table and turned to her. “Come here and give me a hug.”

  “Oh Peter, I'm sorry,” she said again, starting to cry.

  He held her for some minutes, while she sobbed into his shoulder, and then he patted her gently on the back. “Come on, let's finish this fine Cognac and call it a night. You'll feel better in the morning.”

  Within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, Peter fell into a deep sleep. Through the early hours of the morning, a succession of hazy thoughts, sensations and images tried to find narrative in the form of a dream. Images of Isabelle, Abigail, endless miles of road, cars, lorries, more road, Abigail, Isabelle again, assaulted his mind. Now a flashing blue light in the rear mirror. Pulling over, light flashing, stopped on the hard shoulder. It's Abigail getting out of the patrol car. How to explain Isabelle in the passenger seat? Why are we naked? Abigail has just smashed the rear window with a tyre iron, and is moving round to Isabelle’s window, iron swinging, another loud smashing sound.

  Peter woke up with a start. Squinting at his watch - three am – he lay staring at the ceiling reflecting on the dream. Suddenly he heard a noise from downstairs. He held his breath, listening for another. A dog barked in the distance, then it came again - a scraping sound as if something heavy was being dragged across the floor. Why would Isabelle be moving furniture around at this time? Unless of course...it wasn't Isabelle. He got quietly out of bed and grabbed the dressing gown hanging on the door. He made his way slowly downstairs, hoping the floorboards wouldn't creak. One did, and he froze, straining to hear past the sound of blood whooshing through his ears. The muffled whisper of a man's voice seemed to be coming from the study. It sounded east European. He listened for another, but it stopped, and then there was silence. A solitary burglar surely wouldn't whisper to himself - unless of course, he happened to be psychotic – which meant he was either facing multiple burglars or a psychotic individual. Feeling disinclined to find out which, he returned as quietly as he could to the spare room, picked up the mobile and dialled 999.

  After giving the necessary details, and being assured that the police would be there within fifteen to twenty minutes, he decided to head into Isabelle's room. He didn't want to alarm her or, for that matter, risk her alarming the intruders, but at the same time, he couldn't leave her alone, while strange men were roaming the house. He rocked her shoulder and called her name softly, while holding one finger to his mouth in the “Shush” position.

  “Peter! What is it?” she said, a little too loudly.

  “Shush! We have burglars downstairs. I've called the police and they're on their way. Panic filled her eyes, and she sat up quickly, causing the bed springs to squeak. They listened as the sound of footsteps was followed by a muffled thud, as two hard surfaces momentarily knocked together.

  “I have to do something!” whispered Peter, feeling wimpy and pathetic.

  “No, you mustn't!” whispered Isabelle, more loudly. “You might get hurt. There's nothing down there that's worth the risk. They can take whatever they like. Besides, it's all insured.”

  Peter crept to the door he'd left slightly ajar and peered through the crack. “If they come anywhere near the stairs, I'm going to have a go at them.”

  He looked around the room and picked up a small brass statue of a horse, testing its weight. It felt just about heavy enough to really piss someone off, without actually stopping them. He put it down again and glanced at his watch. Where were the police? Just then, they heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel outside followed by some angry whispering. Isabelle tiptoed over and lifted the curtain, as Peter joined her. Three dark shapes were crossing the lawn away from the house. At least two appeared to be carrying something.

  “Where are those fucking police?” said Peter angrily.

  “The nearest station is twenty minutes away,” said Isabelle, “unless there happened to be a car in the neighbourhood, there's no way they'll make it in less than that.”

  Shortly, the ignition of a diesel engine rattled out of the darkness. They listened, simultaneously relieved and frustrated, as it accelerated off, the sound rising and falling with the shifting gears and then growing steadily fainter until they could hear it no longer. “I suppose we had better go down and see what they've taken,” said Peter eventually.

  One of the panes of the sash window in the study had been broken allowing the intruders to open it fully and climb in over the desk. The desk, now bearing the wet muddy footprints, had then apparently been dragged to one side, presumably to provide better access to the now absent computer base unit. He scanned the room slowly and noticed a gap where the midi-system had once sat. Everything else, including the printer and synthesiser appeared to be untouched. So much for that Dream-Zone combo file he thought. If only he had recovered it before going to bed. Isabelle was clutching his upper arm and still looking fearful.

  “It's all right!” he said, placing his arm around her shoulders. “They're gone. And by the look of it, all you've lost is a few hundred pounds worth of PC and Hi-Fi. And even that should be covered by your contents insurance.”

  “But they were here - in my house.” Her expression was turning to anger and revulsion. “How dare these people invade the privacy of my home like that. Touching all my things with their dirty hands.” She leant over to rub at one of the footprints on the desk, but Peter held her arm.

  “No, we should leave that for the police.”

  They completed a cursory tour of the ground floor, but all the other rooms appeared undisturbed. Presently, a flash of blue light appeared at the window, followed by the sound of tyres on gravel.

  Peter recounted events to the two young constables, while Isabelle made some tea.

  “East European, you say?” said one.

  “I don't know, they were only whispering, so I'm not really sure.”

  “Polish?” One of them asked, glancing at the other, as though this somehow explained everything.

  “Maybe – or Russian perhaps, I don't know, something like that.”

  The policemen drunk their tea gratefully, explaining how someone would be along in the morning to check for prints, but not sounding too optimistic.

  Peter and Isabelle showed the officers out, and retired upstairs for the second time that night. It was now almost four in the morning, but Peter no longer felt tired. Or rather his body was tired, while his mind was not. After a few minutes, there was a quiet knock at his bedroom door.

  “Peter, are you awake?”

  He sat up, as Isabelle entered the room, her diaphanous white nightdress fluttering gently in an unfelt
breeze.

  She approached the bed, “Would you mind terribly if I lay here with you for the rest of the night? It's just that I keep imagining someone breaking in again.”

  For a moment, he sat there agog, lost in fantasy. “Of course not”, he finally murmured.

  She climbed slowly under the covers and curled up with her back to him. He lay down beside her, staring at the long dark hair on the pillow, taking in its scent, and listening to the rhythm of her breath - fast and irregular - not the rhythm of sleep - more like anticipation. He reached out and gently stroked her hair. She rolled over to face him, her eyes glistening in the dim light of the stars. “Hold me Peter!” she said, her voice not quite a whisper.

  CHAPTER 12

  The exercise bike shifted its programme to “hill-climb”, and Doug felt his thigh muscles start to burn. He pushed harder, trying to keep the speed constant while turning up the volume on his iPod, in an attempt to distract himself from the three inches of quivering buttock crack perched on the machine in front. He didn't know the girl's name, just that she had started showing up in computing lectures since the beginning of term. He and Kal had rather ungraciously debated as to whether she was pregnant. Doug had first assumed she must be, but Kal had bet him a tenner it was just fat. Observing now how the gelatinous mass overhanging her shorts rippled with each rotation of the peddles, he realised the money would have been Kal's. He had never quite understood how any rational person could allow themselves to get into such a state. While studying for A-levels, he had gained almost a stone, but facing increasing derision from classmates, had immediately cut down on the Snickers bars and started jogging. Over a few brief months, the fat had mostly disappeared, and ever since then, regular jogging combined with rugby and weight training had kept him reasonably trim. Recently, some lardy moron at the cafeteria had told him how lucky he was to have the sort of metabolism which prevented weight gain. He had replied that the real luck lay in his possession of a mirror and enough self esteem to want to preserve a semblance of good health. Luck had nothing to do with it. Everybody makes choices, he had argued, and some, it would seem, willingly make the choice to continue stuffing their fat faces with junk while doing nothing to burn off the resulting calories. At least the girl in front appeared to be doing something about it. If she could just lower the calorie intake by a couple of thousand a day, she might start to get somewhere, he thought.

  The bike shifted back to a simulation of flat road, and he shut his eyes, imagining himself on some country path, with cooling breeze and a vista of rolling green hills, rather than the current choice of wobbling bottom or yellow brick wall. He much preferred running to this sort of cardiovascular work-out at the gym, but for now, with his cheek aching on each repeated impact of his running shoes, he was condemned to the sweaty yellow-walled interior of the university fitness room, at least until the bones of his face had knitted together a little more convincingly.

  As one of his favourite Green Day songs came to an end, it was replaced, unexpectedly, with the rapidly rising and falling tone sequences of Dream-Zone. He stopped peddling for a moment to look at the iPod display. It was one of the audio files downloaded the previous week while in hospital. Although he hadn't deliberately transferred them from his laptop to the iPod, he realised the software must have done it automatically, while the device was charging. He pressed the replay button, shut his eyes, and resumed peddling. He was now flying effortlessly along the country path, moving faster and faster. The fields on either side were becoming gradually obscured by a rambling hedgerow that appeared to be growing in height as he went along. As the speed increased, the hedges melded into two blurred walls of lime green vegetation that began to arch together over his head, until the dark blue line of sky disappeared into a shady verdant tunnel. Faster and faster he went, as the mottled green walls rushed by. Dappled sunlight broke through, creating intermittent shafts of intense brightness, which flashed as he passed, like some crazy disco strobe. He felt as light as the air itself. Looking down, he saw that the bicycle had vanished, and he was floating above the same indeterminate green of the tunnel walls. Everything was now passing at incredible speed, and yet he felt safe and secure. Then the tunnel was gone, and he was shooting out into a black featureless void. Ahead, a small point of light appeared. As he approached, he could make out the silhouette of Cindy standing precariously on a narrow towering pedestal extending hundreds of feet into black nothingness. She reached out to him, desperately, but as he neared, the pedestal started to crumble beneath her. He leant forwards, trying to grasp her hands, but remained frustratingly out of reach. Her pleading eyes registered fear, disappointment, and finally sad acceptance as, with arms outstretched, she fell backwards, swiftly receding into the darkness until she was no more than a dot, and then she was gone.

  Someone was shaking Doug by the shoulders. A red sweaty moon of a face was staring at him from less than a foot away. It was the fat girl from the bike in front.

  “What happened?” he stammered, feeling dizzy and confused.

  “You were just sitting there with your eyes half open and your lids fluttering rapidly. It looked like a kind of fit. Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” he said cautiously, glancing around the room and feeling relieved to see they were alone. “It might have been a partial seizure. Ever since I got knocked on the head the other week, I've been having some strange turns, and the doc just told me I might have epilepsy.”

  “I'm sorry,” said the girl with genuine concern. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, it's really not so bad. Just kind of like a weird dream, in fact. I feel fine now.”

  “You're Doug, right?” she said, her frown turning into a tentative smile.

  “Yes...you're...on my computing course this term, aren't you?”

  “It's Becky. And yes, except that we've been taking the same course since the first year.”

  Doug was confused. He had only started to notice this girl since the beginning of term. There was simply no way he could have overlooked somebody this fat for two and half years.

  “I wasn't always this size,” she added in explanation, her cheeks growing more flushed as she turned away in embarrassment, “...and I was off most of last term recovering from surgery.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Doug feeling suddenly ashamed.

  “I had a tumour in my pituitary gland.”

  These words seemed to trigger something deep in Doug's mind. “Cushing's syndrome?” he heard himself ask.

  Her head jerked back in surprise. “How on earth would you know that? Yes, not many people have even heard of the disease, let alone know what can cause it.”

  “I have absolutely no idea how I knew that. I suppose I must have read it somewhere, or seen it on TV or something.”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “Well, you obviously have a great memory!” Then the smile returned. “As well as being a great programmer.”

  Doug looked at her blankly.

  “I spoke to Tenhagen, our computing tutor yesterday. Apparently you and I were the only ones to successfully complete that last assignment. But yours, he said, and I quote, was the most elegant solution he had ever seen in all the years he's been setting it.”

  “Really?” said Doug, excited and surprised in equal measure. “I was stuck on it for ages, but then suddenly, while I was lying in hospital last week, it just came to me.”

  She nodded, with a thin smile that seemed to say, Yeah-right.

  Doug studied her face again, trying to remember her from before, but again failing. “You say we've been on the same course since year one?”

  “Don't worry,” she continued. “Hardly anybody recognises me now. Thanks to Cushing's, the whole shape of my face has changed...along with this thing that used to be my body.” She looked down at herself in disgust. “Anyway, the tumour's finally gone, so I'm hoping it's just a matter of dieting and exercise now.”

  “Well I'm very glad to hear that,” said Doug, “a
nd thank you again for pulling me out of that ...fit or whatever it was. I appreciate it.”

  She smiled, turned towards the changing rooms then turned back. “You know what the worst part of being fat is?”

  Doug shook his head.

  “The way people write you off. They take one look at this body and affix in their minds some “idle glutton” label, without bothering to find out what's underneath. Even before I became ill, I was no Angelina Jolie, but at least back then people used to treat me with some respect – even if they didn't always notice me.”

  “Look, I'm really sorry, I...”

  “It's all right, I wasn't referring to you particularly. Everybody looks at me like that. It just pisses me off, that's all.”

  “I can imagine - and you're right, that is probably what went through my head when I saw you before. I'm really sorry.” He paused, “Listen, I was thinking, can I buy you a cup of coffee once we get out of here?”

  “I really don't need your sympathy ... and you don't have to feel guilty. Before I got ill, I had the same attitude to fat people myself – which makes it even worse, somehow.”

  “Actually, I didn't offer out of guilt... You just seem like an interesting person, and I thought it might be fun to finally get to know one another. Plus, I want to hear more about all the wonderful things Tenhagen had to say about my assignment,” he added with a cheeky grin.

  She hesitated a moment, looking uncomfortable, then smiled. “Okay,” she said, “why not?”

  “Good. See you outside after we've changed.”

  Leaving the locker room, he checked his mobile and noticed a missed call from Peter. He quickly dialled the number, eager to find out whether he had managed to recover the Dream-Zone combo file.

  “Hello, this is Peter,” his voice raised against a background of road noise.

  “Peter, it's Doug. Sounds like you're still on your way back to Bracknell. Did you get the file?”

  There was a pause. “No, I didn't,” he said, sounding tired and exasperated.