Broadcast

by Liam Brown

  ‘Symbolism?’

  She laughs. ‘Don’t worry. It’s probably just me.’

  Another awkward moment passes. For a second I think she’s going to reach down and hug me, but then she extends her hand for me to shake. ‘So, I guess this is it then. It’s been … it’s been interesting. I hope things, you know, work out for you.’

  ‘Who, me?’ I snort defensively. ‘I’ll be fine. I mean, look at this place. I’m on top of the world.’

  She nods. ‘You’re right. You’re doing great.’

  We walk in silence across the expanse of the apartment, until we reach the door.

  ‘You know if that car thing is seriously bugging you, you could always give Xan a call?’ she says. ‘I mean, I’m sure there’s an explanation for it.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s fine. Like you said, it’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Okay then.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We shake hands one last time. And then she’s gone.

  I walk back across the apartment, collapse into a sofa. The place feels even bigger now that Alice has gone. I touch the back of my head. Ever since the attack, the scar where the chip was implanted has been throbbing. The tissue tender. Under my fingers, the patch feels shiny and hairless. Almost like plastic. My ears are still ringing. I hold my breath. Beyond the endless whine of tinnitus I hear something else. The hiss and crunch of various electrical appliances triggering all around me. Lights flicker on and off. On and off. The electric juicer begins to roar, spraying the kitchen walls with pulped blood orange. The empty dishwasher switches itself on for yet another cycle.

  This place is alive. Possessed.

  Next to me, the screen pings on, tuned to MindCast. Always tuned to MindCast.

  My thoughts splattered across the walls, five feet high.

  I bury my head under a cushion and try to think nothing.

  Think nothing.

  Think nothing.

  Think nothing.

  Hours pass. Weeks.

  Outside the apartment, the nights stretch to swallow the days, the congested skies shrouding the city in an interminable brown, neither dark nor light. Neither one thing nor another.

  Peering down through the reinforced window of my penthouse, I am just about able to make out the twinkle of coloured lights strung between the shops below, the narrow streets churning with a snowstorm of shoppers, each no bigger than a burned-out pixel on a broken screen.

  It’s mid-December, only a few weeks until Christmas. Not that I’m feeling especially festive this year. There are no decorations pinned to my walls. No tree, artificial or otherwise. No chestnuts nor open fire. The security arrangements here seem specifically designed to deter visitors, and with just me around, it hardly seems worth the effort. Besides, having not left the apartment in almost a month now, I’ve found myself curiously detached from life on the ground. I stay away from radio, TV, social media. Like a cosmonaut floating high above the Earth, the world outside has been reduced to a vague palette of primary colours. Something to marvel at briefly through my porthole before I return to the bland comfort of my routine, to my bubble.

  Most days I wake late. Midday. Early afternoon. There is a fully equipped state-of-the-art gym here, though I can rarely motivate myself to use it. In fact, I have noticed lately that my once prominent six-pack has disappeared, replaced instead by the beginnings of a soft paunch. In that sense, I’m glad that I have no promotional work to worry about at the moment. Nothing to worry about at all, in fact. I don’t even have to clean up after myself. Despite never seeing a maid, every day I get out of bed to find the apartment gleaming, the bins emptied, my laundry washed and folded. Then again, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find the floors swept themselves.

  Up until yesterday, I have spent my afternoons making notes on Alice’s unfinished manuscript. It’s a strange experience reading through my own recent history, one that provokes a queasy feeling, not unlike the one I get from watching MindCast. It’s not that it’s inaccurate. If anything, the depth of her research is formidable. Yet while the character on the page is certainly recognisable as me, at the same time it never quite tallies with my actual, lived experiences. For one thing, she clearly has literary ambitions for the book beyond a standard celebrity tell-all. Much of it is overwritten, or embellished with poetic details that somehow don’t really ring true. There are also times where she has clearly been forced to guess at how I was feeling, or what I was thinking at a certain time. The strange thing about this, is that even where I spot something is wrong, I can almost feel her words erasing my original recollections and replacing them with hers, in the same way that MindCast’s almost-but-not-quite simulations of my thoughts end up being the final, fixed account of whatever is supposedly on my mind, my delicate memories no match for the brute physicality of the printed words or moving image.

  The manuscript finishes with the attack and my subsequent rescue by the police. After that, there are only blank pages for me to make notes. As I reach the end, I’m struck by a pang of anxiety about what happens next. After all, I’m fairly sure no one will be interested in reading about me sitting around semi-dressed, growing fatter and lazier by the day. In an effort to soothe these worries, I have recently started practising the mindfulness technique Alice showed me. Hour after hour, I sit in front of one of the giant wall screens, trying my best to hold the image of the lone cloud passing slowly across the sky, all the time breathing.

  In … Out …

  In … Out …

  I’ve spent so long practising that I’ve got pretty good at it, and now within a couple of seconds I am able to open my eyes to find the jumbled chaos that is typically displayed on the screen wiped clear, replaced instead with the image I’m currently meditating on. Having done this a number of times now, I’ve been able to make two interesting observations. Firstly, almost without fail, the number of viewers in the bottom right hand corner of the screen begins to plummet almost the instant I begin to meditate. While I’m not especially alarmed at the dip in numbers, I am surprised at the speed people are willing to switch off. These days I can lose half a million viewers in the blink of an eye.

  The second thing I’ve noticed is more disturbing. Almost without fail, these meditation sessions are quickly interrupted by an extended thought sequence, the contents of which I am not only powerless to control, but that I’m increasingly convinced I haven’t generated in the first place. It’s not always a BMW that drives through my thoughts, although I have witnessed that scene play out in exactly the same way at least twice since I first sat through it with Alice. It’s not even always cars. Sometimes an image of an ice-cold Budweiser will fill the screen, the bottle clammy with condensation, a hint of foam seeping seductively from the tip. Other times there’ll be an extended sequence where I stroke the screen of a gleaming new iPhone, or else there’ll be a video of me biting into a Big Mac with almost pornographic intensity, my eyes clenched in pure ecstasy as the bun splays open in slow motion to reveal the meat inside, condiment spurting through my fingers and onto my chin.

  As ever, I can’t be one hundred percent sure that these images do not originate in my own subconscious. Naturally, the moment I see them, I tend to immediately start thinking about the content on the screen. It also occurs to me that, as I’ve actively avoided watching MindCast up until now, I have no idea how long this has been going on. Perhaps this is just the way my brain works, and I’ve just never been aware of it before? Still, doubts remain. For one thing, these sequences always appear so suddenly, their slick production jarring in contrast to everything else on the screen, that I can’t help trusting my original impulse. That these are not my thoughts. Which in turn opens up a far more troubling question.

  If they’re not mine, then whose are they?

  In the end, I decide to take Alice’s advice and ask Xan to explain what’s going on. This of course is not as simple as it sounds. For days now I have tried to no avail to get through to someone from MindCast. M
y emails are completely ignored, and the only person I can reach on the phone is a flat-voiced receptionist who apologises that neither Xan nor Katya are currently available but promises to pass on my request for an urgent call back. In frustration, I ask to speak to Dr Khan, or even Paul, but I only ever get the same response.

  There’s nobody here.

  I’ve also had difficulty contacting Sarah. It’s bizarre. Over the last three years she’s made it her job to micro-manage not just every aspect of my career, but my whole life. As a sort of PA, psychotherapist and life coach rolled into one, I’ve come to rely on her to steer me through the increasingly hectic days and nights, telling me where to go, what to wear, who to meet, what to say. Whenever there’s a big news story – a terrorist attack, some political upheaval – it’s always Sarah who tells me about it, breaking the issue down into instantly quotable soundbites so I that can make sense of it. Equally, when my dad had a health scare a couple of years back, she was the first person I picked up the phone to speak to.

  Lately though, she just seems to have lost interest in me. After the attack at my old apartment, I didn’t hear from her for a week. There was no knock at my door. No reassuring motivational speech. No message to ask if I needed anything. Even my parents phoned me, temporarily putting aside their issues with the show to check if I was okay. In the end, all I received from her was a three-line text message telling me that everything was fine business-wise and that I should keep doing what I’m doing. Since then, I’ve left her numerous essay length voicemails explaining my concerns about the show, asking her to look into it urgently.

  To stop ignoring me. To call me.

  Please.

  I have just left a third message for her this evening, when my phone buzzes with a text message. I snatch greedily for it, assuming my so-called manager has finally had the courtesy to get in touch. The number, however, is one I don’t recognise. Opening the text, it simply reads:

  Skype, 2 mins.

  I swallow hard. Ordinarily I would simply write this sort of thing off as spam. A clumsy precursor to a phishing scam. In light of the recent attack though, the text seems to take on a far more sinister tone. My heart begins to rattle in my chest. Still, curiosity gets the better of me, and against my better judgement, I find myself opening my laptop.

  A few seconds later a call blinks through.

  Name: Anonymous.

  ‘Hello?’

  For a moment the screen is blank. Then, gradually, an image appears though the picture is so badly distorted that the person on the other end is little more than a beige blur.

  ‘Hello?’ I repeat. ‘I’m afraid it’s a terrible connection. I can hardly make you out.’

  ‘Hello David,’ the blur says. The voice is pitched down to a robotic baritone familiar from a dozen ‘real crime’ shows, the same effect they use to conceal the identity of endangered witnesses.

  ‘Who is this?’ I ask, my words crackling with panic.

  ‘Please, there’s no time. Don’t talk. And for God’s sake don’t think. Just listen …’

  I squint at the screen. Even heavily disguised, there is nevertheless something disturbingly familiar about the person talking. Something about their clipped cadence, the way they roll their ‘r’s.

  ‘You are in danger David,’ the blur continues. ‘The chip they implanted in you. It’s not safe …’

  ‘The chip? What are you talking about? Who is this?’

  I’m cold, numb. Yet still there is something about the person I recognise. I rack my brain.

  ‘Please, no questions. Just listen. Some of the components used in the M900 have been shown to produce adverse side effects in a number of studies. Amnesia … Dementia … Even death.’

  ‘Death?’

  ‘I have to go. This connection is not secure. Can you meet me?’

  ‘Where?’ I croak.

  ‘At the place where this story began. Tonight, at eleven o’clock. We can talk then.’

  ‘Where this story began? I don’t understand?’

  ‘I have to go …’

  ‘Wait.’

  As the word leaves my lips, it suddenly hits me. The person talking. It has to be …

  ‘Katya? Katya is that you?’

  The screen goes dead. ‘Katya?’

  Call ended.

  I punch the keyboard a couple of times. Then I have an idea. I reach for my phone and bring up her original text message. I hit redial.

  It rings twice, then picks up.

  ‘We’re sorry. The number you have dialled has been disconnected or is no longer in service …’

  I hang up, take a deep breath.

  Check my watch.

  The time is nine-forty-five.

  I clear my throat. Then, in a loud voice, I speak to the walls.

  ‘Put me through to reception. I need to book a car …’

  Cameras strobe and phones click. A few dozen people are waiting outside my apartment, crowding the door, tearing at my clothes, my limbs. Over here, Dave. Looking good, Dave. Even though it’s late. Even though I deliberately turned down the offer of security so as to keep a low profile. Even though I haven’t been outside for weeks. Even though my hood is pulled low over my face. Even though no one is supposed to know where I live anymore. Over here, Dave. Looking good, Dave. It’s a mixed mob of paparazzi and super-fans, of professionals and amateurs, all of them calling my name. All of them wanting a piece of me. Over here, Dave. Looking good, Dave. People begging me for autographs and selfies. People begging for hugs and fist bumps. For money, for sex, for love. Over here, Dave. Looking good, Dave. Somebody tells me about their three-year-old daughter who’s dying of cancer. She’s a good kid, a huge fan of the show. Could I maybe think about them, just for a second? It would mean everything to her. Over here, Dave. Looking good, Dave. Someone else tells me about a new app they’ve developed that’s going to change the world if only I could help get the word out. If only I’d think about it for a moment. Over here, Dave. Looking good, Dave. They’re dropping bombs in Syria. Killing whales in Norway. Starving to death in Ethiopia. Somebody has to do something. Raise awareness. Spread the word. If you could just … Only a second … Make a difference … Over here, Dave. Looking good, Dave.

  Dave

  Dave

  Dave

  Dave

  Dave

  Dave

  Dave.

  I fight my way through the horde to the curb, where a car is waiting for me. Prising away the fingers that have wedged between the door, I at last manage to slam it shut. I hit the lock. Exhale with relief.

  ‘Good evening, sir. And where are we going tonight?’

  I look up. The driver is smiling at me in the rear-view mirror. He’s older than me. Old enough to be my dad. For a split second I dare to hope that he’s never heard of me. That he has no idea who I am. There’s something about his smile though. It’s a little too wide, a little too intense, so that I get the sense it’s only professional discretion that’s stopping him saying something. From begging for something. Then I glance at the dash, and I know that I’m right. Because right there, propped next to his sat nav, is his mobile phone, the screen unlocked, a familiar silver logo gleaming.

  ‘Just drive,’ I snap.

  ‘Anywhere in particular, sir?’

  ‘Just go,’ I say. ‘Anywhere but here.’

  The driver slips the car into gear, releases the handbrake. Accelerates. We plunge into the night.

  Once I’ve put some distance between me and the mob, I tell the driver where I want him to take me.

  ‘You sure about that, sir?’ he asks, repeating the address back to me.

  I sigh. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Only I hear there’s been some trouble over that way. It’s just been on the news. Bad from the sound of it. Whole street’s closed apparently.’

  Without a word, I take out my phone.

  I begin to scroll.

  The mainstream news sites don’t have much informatio
n yet.

  Activists suspected of a major attack on MindCast HQ. Unconfirmed report of multiple casualties. This is a developing story …

  Social media is already way ahead though. People are saying that the attacks are linked to last month’s attempted kidnapping of David Callow. To me. People are laughing, their streams filled with jokes I don’t understand. Memes featuring sheep and OpimiZer bands, the same gags repeated over again, ad nauseam. LOL. ROFL. Endless emojis weeping with hysterical laughter.

  I try calling Sarah again, to see if she knows anything.

  No answer.

  I leave her a message, telling her I’m worried. I tell her about the call. About the chip. About Katya. I tell her I want to leave the show. I hang up.

  I refresh the feed, keep scrolling.

  New reports come in. Information. Misinformation. People are posting live from the scene. There are dark, blurry photos, seeming to confirm what many of the mainstream sites are now also reporting. That previous descriptions of a major attack are unsubstantiated. That damage to the property is minimal. That no motive has been revealed. That the perpetrator has not been identified and is presumably still at large. That there is, in fact, only one reported victim. A lone female employee.

  I feel my head begin to spin.

  I refresh the feed, keep scrolling.

  Just then, my phone begins to vibrate. Sarah’s name flashes up.

  I snatch at the screen to answer it.

  ‘Sarah? Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Did you get my message? Apparently there’s been some kind of attack at MindCast. Hello? Hello?’

  There is a groan of distortion on the other end, my voice warped and echoing.

  ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  ‘David? There’s something wrong with the … urgently … the chip …’

  Sarah fades out again, her voice swallowed by a swell of digital noise.

  ‘Hello? Sarah? Can you say that again? I can hardly hear you.’

  I press the phone to my ear, my eyes closed, trying to make sense of the jangle of feedback vibrating from the speaker. Suddenly, her voice returns, cutting in and out, as if she’s calling to me across a vast ocean, her head dipping above and below the waves, struggling to stay afloat.