CONNECTED

by Denman, Simon

  Doug glanced through the open window, but continued walking.

  “Please Doug! It's important. I have to talk to you.”

  He stopped, looked up at the darkening rain clouds and back at Nadia. He still had a good forty-five minutes walk ahead of him, and was already soaked. He opened the door and climbed in.

  “How was your appointment?” she asked, looking genuinely concerned.

  “I have epilepsy,” he replied.

  “I'm sorry,” she said.

  “Yeah, well...”

  “I'm sorry for everything, really.”

  He looked at her for a few seconds. “Do you promise that neither you nor Markov had anything to do with Kal's death?”

  “Doug, I swear on my mother's grave. When Kal backed out of selling Dream-Zone to him, Sergei just asked me to try and get a copy from you instead.”

  “Steal a copy from me,” Doug corrected.

  “Well, maybe... although at the time, I think you'd have probably given it to me,” she said with a tentative smile.

  Doug tried to suppress a smirk, but failed.

  “Am I wrong?” she asked, now grinning broadly.

  “I would have given you just about anything that morning,” he replied, finally breaking out a reluctant smile.

  She placed her hand on top of his. “I know I lied to you, and I'm really sorry, but I was being offered a chance to finally put my past behind me – to get rid of the last piece of leverage he had over me – the tape. I never wanted for anybody to get hurt.”

  “So that's all it was for you – a chance to get your precious tape back.”

  “Well - initially maybe, but it was kind of fun too, you have to admit. I mean, I wouldn't sleep with just anyone, but you're a sexy guy...”

  “And Brian?” he asked with a frown.

  “Yeah, well that was a mistake, as you've probably gathered. And if it's any consolation, he's not a patch on you!”

  Doug smiled briefly, then turned serious again. “So the rest of it - that story you told me about stripping in his club as a student, and your mother being a Russian ballerina...”

  “All true,” she said.

  Doug gazed through the windscreen as the wipers tried frantically to keep pace with the worsening downpour. “It's just the thought of Kal committing suicide over some bloody computer file - made no sense - so when I saw his phone in your drawer...”

  “I just saw the thing lying there in the grass, guessed it was his and thought it might contain a copy of Dream-Zone.”

  “I assume it didn't.”

  “No, just music and photos mainly.”

  “How did you get past the security code?”

  “Dmitri hacked it for me. Only took him about an hour.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes.

  “So what now?” asked Doug finally.

  “Well there's an untouched Thai meal for two in my fridge,” she responded with a hopeful smile, “unless you need to get back to campus for some reason.”

  “I meant...”

  “I know what you meant,” she said quickly, keeping her eyes on the road, while a complex gamut of emotion rolled across her face. “I'm very fond of you, Doug. I find you attractive. I like spending time with you...” She hesitated.

  “But?” offered Doug, grudgingly.

  “But we have more important things to consider right now than our feelings for one another.”

  He looked at her, waiting for elaboration.

  “As you correctly guessed. Markov now has Dream-Zone, and he plans to sell it to a man named Wong.”

  “Who the fuck is he?”

  “Have you ever heard of Massively Multi-player Online Gaming, or MMOG for short?”

  “You mean those nerdy role-playing games like World of Warcraft?”

  “Well they might be nerdy here, but in China they are very, very big business, and Wong runs one of the largest conglomerates of MMOG providers across Asia.”

  “So?”

  “So, there's a lot of competition out there and it's getting ugly. These companies will do just about anything to buy themselves an advantage. Initially, they were content with attacking each others' websites – disrupting service over the weekend – that sort of thing. But recently, there have been rumours of them burying subliminal messages - flashing lights – hypnotic sounds...”

  “Oh shit!” said Doug, seeing where this was heading.

  “Oh shit is right! If Dream-Zone really is what caused Martin and Kal to commit suicide, and we let Wong embed it in video games with tens of thousands of subscribers, then we're going to have a very real problem on our hands.”

  “We have to tell the police,” said Doug emphatically.

  “Which, the Chinese police? How do you plan to do that?”

  “Well, we tell the police here and let them figure out how to tell the Chinese.”

  “Can you really see Blighty's bobbies being able, first, to understand what we're trying to tell them, and second, to influence the authorities of a foreign communist state fast enough to make a difference?”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “I suggest we start by having a Thai lunch at my place, and then try to come up with a cunning plan.”

  After stopping in the High Street to pick up Doug's prescription, they returned to Nadia's apartment to eat. Through forkfuls of noodles, she filled in the missing chapters of the unfolding drama, in which Doug now found himself a player.

  “Okay, so there's a chance Markov might not have sold it to Wong yet,” said Doug, helping himself to more chilli prawns.

  “Right! He thinks he can get more money,” she said, “so with luck they'll still be negotiating. He knows Wong wants it badly, so Sergei will be stalling, and pretending he has an alternative buyer.”

  Doug looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “You really know this guy well, don't you.”

  “Well enough to know how he operates. He may be smart, but he is predictable.”

  “And you don't think it's worth trying to appeal to his conscience?”

  She threw him a condescending look. “Not a chance. He wouldn't know one if it came along and bit him in the arse.”

  “Okay, so how much do you know about Wong?”

  “Other than what I've told you? Nothing. Dmitri introduced them through one of his hacking buddies.”

  “And how well do you know Dmitri?”

  “Too well – or at least - better than I'd like. He's a creep.”

  “You haven't - you know...?”

  “God no! He's the last person on earth I would ever do that with – although I've never quite been able to convince him of that!”

  Doug was smiling at her.

  “What?” said Nadia. “Are you suggesting I try to seduce Dmitri? Forget it!”

  “Doesn't sound like you'd need to try too hard.”

  “I'm not sleeping with that prick!”

  “But if he thinks you might...?”

  She looked pensive for a moment, then conceded, “It's worth a try I suppose – he's certainly not going to let you anywhere near him after that brick you put through his window – if there's one thing in this world he loves more than himself, it's that car! You know, he even named it after some video game babe!”

  “Oh yeah – what? Lara Croft, the Subaru?” said Doug with a laugh.

  “Oh I don't know – Keelie – Kylie - Carlene – something like that.”

  “Well, maybe by the end of the night, he'll have one more object of desire...”

  “For someone so disapproving of my means yesterday, you seem happy enough to make use of them today!” she said, looking peevish.

  “But this is for the greater good!” said Doug, with a cheeky grin. “Besides you probably won't even have to kiss him!”

  Nadia wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue in disgust. “Okay, just give me a few minutes to get in character.”

  “Ah, finally a chance to watch the famous femme fatale at work!
” he said.

  She frowned at him, gave him a kiss, then picked up her mobile and dialled. He leant back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and watching, as her face magically transformed into that of the sexy siren seductress he knew and loved.

  “Dmitri! It's Nadia. How are y...”

  The expression changed to confusion and then concern. “What do you mean, you know everything?” she continued, looking increasingly worried as the reply came. “How? Sergei will kill you! ... Of course it matters! - Look, Doug and I are going to find a way to stop it from happening – you just need to let us know how to reach Wo’... What? How do you know about the pills? ... Dmitri? ...Dmitri!”

  “What is it?” asked Doug, as she hung up, staring at the phone in her hand.

  “He sounded weird - says he sabotaged the file.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he knows what will happen if Wong gets it,” she said slowly, “he says he can't let that happen.”

  “Hmm! Perhaps he isn't such a prick after all!” said Doug. “What was that about pills?”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “When I mentioned your name, he said I should make sure you take your pills.”

  “What the fuck? How does he...”

  “You must have mentioned the epilepsy in one of the emails he snooped,” she said quickly, but without much conviction.

  Doug thought for a moment. “I suppose it's possible – maybe I told Peter in an email – I don't remember. No other explanation really though is there?”

  “No, it's just funny he should mention it right after we get your prescription like that though.”

  “Just a coincidence - I mean it's not a huge leap from knowing someone's got epilepsy to guessing they're on medication. Talking of which, I suppose I should follow his advice and take one.”

  Nadia shook her head slowly, her mind clearly churning over the other more pertinent points of her conversation with Dmitri.

  “We have to get over there!” she said suddenly.

  “And do what?” asked Doug, popping one of the Gabapentins from the container and washing it down with red wine. “As long as Wong doesn't get the file ...”

  “You don't know Sergei like I do. Dmitri may be his cousin, but if he crosses him...” She trailed off mid-sentence. “It was almost like he didn't care.”

  The traffic was light that afternoon and within forty-five minutes they reached a row of sooty red-brick London terraces. Nadia slowed down, peering out at the house numbers.

  “There!” said Doug, spotting the Subaru on the other side of the street.

  “Huh!” she said, “It's usually shinier than that! I didn't even recognise it without the hey-look-at-me wax job.”

  Dmitri's house, like all the others, appeared to be a modest two-up-two-down with original bay windows, one above the other. The oak-effect front door however, with its ostentatious brass fittings and faux leaded lights, was completely out of keeping with the rest of the property – though not perhaps, with its inhabitant - thought Doug. Nadia swung the knocker while he stood back looking up at the windows for signs of movement. Nothing stirred. She tried again. Still nothing. Doug peered through the first floor window. A huge flat-panel TV and assorted home cinema gear occupied most of one wall. Facing this was a small, red, two-seater sofa upon which lay a couple of petrol-head magazines and a games controller. At the far end, opposite the window was an archway leading through to what was presumably the dining room. In stark contrast to the relative tidiness of the living room, this area resembled the aftermath of a tornado through a trailer park. Among the debris, just visible between a broken computer monitor and the overturned dining table, was the partial yet unmistakable form of a track-suit clad leg.

  “Call the police!” said Doug, looking round and finding himself alone. He stepped back onto the street and glanced up and down. She was neither in the road, nor the car. At that moment, the front door swung open and Nadia quickly beckoned him in. “The back-door was open,” she said, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Look, we should wait for the police,” he whispered, stepping into the hallway, “there's someone on the floor through ...” Doug froze. Entering the house, he had tried to prepare himself for the sight of an unconscious, or possibly even dead Dmitri Zhirkov, but the bloody pulp situated above the shoulders of this otherwise human form was beyond any such act of preparation. Were it not for the metallic piercings glinting from within the gore, the face was barely recognizable.

  Nadia bent over and pressed three fingertips against Dmitri's neck. “There's a faint pulse!” she said quickly, “Call an ambulance!”

  He did so, while Nadia cradled the man’s bloodied head and gently spoke his name again and again. Gradually, the bruised eyelids flickered a little, the swollen lips parted, and there was a short intake of breath.

  “Car – key,” he croaked, lifting his right arm off the floor, as if pointing to Doug, and then letting it flop back down with a thud.

  “What about your car key?” asked Nadia softly, “Is there something you want us to see in your car?”

  Dmitri's chest raised a few times in short succession accompanied by low rasping sounds. “Key - is...” he said and then let out a long sigh.

  “Dmitri!” she said more loudly, shaking him by the shoulder. “Stay with us!” She then reached into his right pocket and withdrew a plain silver plated key fob attached to which were two keys: one to the Subaru and the other presumably to the front door. “Here! Go and take a look in his car before the police and ambulance get here.”

  Doug took a quick look through the curtains to check all was clear, and then jogged out to the Subaru. He let himself in and sat in the driver's seat, scanning the racy interior with a mixture of envy and distaste. As he opened the glove compartment, a jumble of wires and small electronic devices tumbled out. The guy was definitely a geek. Doug placed them on the passenger seat, and rummaged through the papers beneath – a parking ticket, a few petrol receipts, maps and various hand-written directions – nothing of any apparent significance. The siren of an ambulance could now be heard, not more than a few streets away. He hurriedly stuffed the contents back into the glove box and checked the other compartments. Other than a panoply of car pampering products in the boot, Doug could find nothing worthy of the injured man's laboured gasps. Locking up the car, he just managed to make it back to the doorway as the ambulance arrived. Nadia opened the door and shook her head grimly. “He's dead,” she said.

  CHAPTER 19

  “I suppose you're now going to lock yourself away in that study all day long!” said Abigail, her whiny neurotic voice now barely more intrusive than the noise of a passing car. “At least have a shower and get dressed,” she continued. “The plasterers will be here later. You can't go answering the door in your dressing gown!”

  “Huh? - Yeah, okay,” he said without looking up from the screen.

  “And remember, you're picking the kids up from school this afternoon. I won't be home until after nine. Just heat up what's left of that spaghetti.”

  “Hmm-hmm!” he murmured, scribbling some equations on a pad beside the keyboard.

  “So, you won't forget!”

  “Forget what?”

  “Did you hear any of what I just said?” she yelled in frustration.

  “Of course!” he said, starting to type on the keyboard. “I'm to pick the kids up from school and give them left-over spaghetti from last night.”

  She fell silent and he finally stopped to look at her. Her face was flushed with anger and exasperation.

  “What?” he asked innocently.

  She turned and stomped downstairs. A moment later the door slammed and peace was restored.

  There was something wrong with quantum physics!

  The Dream-Zone experiences, while both entrancing and exquisitely beautiful, had left Peter with a nagging sense of frustration – a feeling that some important truth had been revealed to him, only to slip t
hrough his grasp like so many grains of sand. He had gone back to the video many times since Sunday evening, convinced on each occasion that the missing knowledge would present itself. He had learned to control his passage through the thought-scape, eliciting answers to almost any question, but while it all appeared to make sense for the duration of his time in the Zone, key fragments of understanding would disintegrate as soon as he came back out. Instead, he would be left with incomplete pieces, all alluding to something of their former elegance, but nevertheless falling short in some critical way.

  For a while, on returning from the Zone, everything around him would take on a profound, almost spiritual significance. Only the previous day, Sam had found him staring intently at a ladybird on the wall. When asked what he was doing, Peter had replied with some embarrassing drivel about the creature's unique place in the universe and how all living things were connected to one another. Sam had looked worriedly at his father for a few moments, as though fearing for his sanity, before scampering off to watch TV.

  Although famously counter-intuitive, the scientific laws governing the quantum world had stood the test of time, and most physicists – a group of which Peter once more considered himself a member – had grudgingly accepted the associated weirdness. But after repeated trips to the Dream-Zone, he was once again beginning to question some of the bizarre implications of this world – a world riddled with inherent uncertainty, where matter could simultaneously manifest at multiple locations – a world where two particles could become entangled in such a way as to defy changes to one without simultaneously affecting the other – even when separated by great distance. Depending on the problem you were trying to solve, a solution could generally be derived using equations that treated sub-atomic matter as either waves or particles, and so this apparent duality was embraced as a useful, albeit inconvenient truth. And yet, Peter now found this compromise deeply unsatisfying, as though both viewpoints were, in fact, merely approximations to a greater underlying reality. It was somewhat reminiscent of Plato's allegory of the cave.

  As he was grappling with these ideas, the doorbell sounded. Still dressed in pyjamas and gown, Peter went downstairs to find a scrawny little man in paint-splattered jeans and T-shirt, standing fidgeting on the doorstep.