by Molly Flatt
The Tube was crammed and stifling. Alex found a handhold near the doors and stood swaying, staring at the tunnel, her reflection superimposed with blue-and-white sparks. Her legs were weak, her breath shallow. She wondered if she was about to faint.
‘Good afternoon, darling.’
A large Jamaican woman was hanging onto the loop beside her, fanning them both with a magazine. Alex smiled politely and looked back at the door. Seconds later the front cover of the magazine appeared, hovering under her nose: a photograph of a child reading a book on a beach, and a headline: ‘Discover the Word of God – It Is Alive!’
‘Have you read the story of our Lord?’
‘No. I mean, yes, I have, but no, I’m not interested, thanks.’
‘Oh, but it can save you. It can save your soul, line by line.’
Alex turned. The woman was watching her with deep, hooded eyes.
Quietly Alex said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
The woman bent closer. ‘Don’t you understand, darling? I’ve been sent to you. I’m here to help.’
Alex glanced at the vacant faces around her. ‘You mean,’ she whispered, leaning in, ‘you’re from the Library?’
The woman straightened up and sighed, re-rolling the magazine. ‘Next stop, darling. Get out at King’s Cross and follow the signs.’
At the co-working space, they’d changed the key fobs. Lenni came down and fetched Alex from the lobby.
‘Thought it was a sensible precaution, after the scene with the Opa! guy,’ he said as they entered the lift. ‘So. What the hell happened out there?’
‘It’s . . . complicated.’
‘You said the signal might be bad, but we didn’t expect you to go completely off-grid.’
‘I know. Nor did I.’
‘Okay, whatever. I hope it was worth it. Gemma’s drafted a press release, though she found it hard to work out exactly what this research project’s about. Their website’s prehistoric. But good for a vlog at least, I hope? You got some nice photos? Ponies, sweaters, bogs?’
‘My phone broke.’
Lenni sighed. ‘Well, I’ve cleared all my meetings this afternoon, and if you work through the evening we might just triage the worst.’
‘Oh. I have to go and see someone tonight.’
Lenni gave her a look. ‘Alex. I understand that you needed a break, but now I need you to focus. You’ll barely have enough time to prep for tomorrow as it is, and there are some serious issues I need to bring you up to speed with. You’re a leader now.’
‘Please, Lenni. I’m not – I’m just—’
Lenni pursed his thin lips. ‘You know Harry called me when you were away?’
‘Harry? Why would Harry call you?’
‘He wanted to know if I’d heard from you, apparently. And he wasn’t exactly friendly about it, either.’ Lenni shrugged. ‘Look, I get it. It can be a tough juggling act. But you’re playing with the big boys now, Alex. You can’t afford to be held back by people who don’t understand.’
The doors slid open and Alex followed Lenni out across the sixth floor. Eudo people began to scramble up from their desks, clasping iPads, but Lenni batted them away. ‘No way,’ he called. ‘You’ll get your turn later. This afternoon she’s mine.’
He ushered Alex into the meeting pod, where both of their laptops were already on the table, plugged in and booted up. A rail-thin Indian girl with pink-and-white ombré hair pushed her way backwards through the door with two bottles of brackish green liquid and two lumps of foil. Alex thought of Finn MacEgan, sweating and shaking in the exact same spot, racked with anger and pain.
‘Where’s Jacob?’ she asked faintly, remembering how he had kicked Finn’s heavy holdall across the floor.
‘Who?’ Lenni was already typing with one hand, tearing into one of the foil parcels with the other. ‘Oh, that kid. He got poached by the wearable guys on three. Now, we have to run through some prospective COO CVs in a minute, but first I need to show you some comments we’ve been getting on the site.’ He turned his screen to face her. ‘The community team—’
A new email alert popped up on Alex’s screen, tagged with a red exclamation mark. The subject header was Research Project: Follow-Up, and the sender was [email protected].
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just need to—’
‘Oh no.’ Lenni reached across and closed the lid. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘I just—’
‘Alex!’ Lenni grabbed at the laptop. There was a brief tug-of-war before Alex let go. Lenni sat with his hands flat on the lid for a moment, then lifted them and gave her a thin smile. ‘Okay. Thank you. Now, take a breath and let’s get to work. Here. Have a burrito.’ He thrust a foil slug into her hands. ‘So.’ He turned back to his screen. ‘Unexpected as your digital detox was, it turned out to have an interesting silver lining. Obviously, while you were away, Gemma had to press pause on the personal PR. So we took the opportunity to make an assessment of our progress, advocacy-wise. Pull in some feedback.’
Alex bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile.
‘Now, we always knew that our positioning would take some tweaking. We’ve been playing it by instinct, and we’ve done pretty well, but it’s essential that we keep evolving as our network matures. And as it turned out, when we looked through the data, some interesting themes emerged. You see this?’
Alex dragged her gaze back from the window. Lenni was pointing at the red-and-grey matrix of Eudo’s online discussion boards. He’d pulled up a thread called Inspiring everywoman or cash cow? ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Scroll down.’
LucyLoo: Did anyone see that piece in Flair about Alex Moore? Um, is it just me or is she a *bit of a bitch*??!! OK so the mods will prob trash this as soon as I post but I can’t help it: she TOTALLY comes across as cold & self-involved . . . (maybe I’m in a bad mood . . . !)
EuKnowIt: ~LucyLoo No! OMG totally! I am like the biggest fangirl but I have to admit that AM is starting to p me off. She only ever talks about how great she is an how easy it is to just get off ur ass an ‘find your power’. Makes me feel like she secretley thinks like the rest of us are idiots, like shes superior
LucyLoo: ~EuKnowIt: Um, exactly, idiots she can *make money out of*
CarrotttCake: ~LucyLoo ~EuKnowIt One word: smug.
YogaBunny51: Eudo has a good mission but honestly I dont think she is some one I can relate to. I think she is stop being a normal person
CarrotttCake ~YogaBunny51: One word: Goop.
LoveLife000: Great hair, tho ;)
‘There’s plenty more where this came from,’ Lenni said, clicking between tabs. ‘And the comments we get whenever we publish under your name . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s just say there’s a hell of a moderation queue.’
Alex stared at him. ‘You think they’re right, don’t you?’ she whispered. ‘You think I’m a fake.’ She felt something land on her thigh and looked down to see her fist clenched around a twist of pulped foil, a glob of salsa on her jeans.
Lenni sighed. ‘This isn’t about me, Alex. It’s about our members. And I’m afraid the engagement figures correlate. We’re still hitting our targets overall, but there are big red flags when it comes to your content. We ran an on-site poll, and we also had an agency do a small offline survey. The keywords that people associate with Alex Moore are successful, powerful, focused . . . and cold. This is a big issue. Cold is not going to shift merchandise. Cold is not going to promote premium memberships.’ He saw her expression and sighed again. ‘This is business, Alex. You can’t take it personally.’
Guacamole dripped onto the salsa. ‘How can I not take it personally? You’re talking about me.’
‘I’m talking about the public perception of you.’
‘And do you think I’m cold?’
‘All I’m saying is that I think it would help, for the next phase of our development, if we found some ways to make you appear a little more . . . human.’
‘Appear
?’
‘You know what I mean.’ He shook his head. ‘I warned you, Alex, when we first talked, that if we were going to build the brand around your personal story, you were going to have to develop a thick skin. I thought you understood. You seemed . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Honestly, I thought you were bulletproof. But if you’re going to shy at the first hurdle . . .’
Alex blinked up from the gore in her lap. ‘What do you want from me, Lenni?’ she asked wearily.
Lenni smiled. ‘Now that’s the attitude I’m looking for. So Gemma and I have been discussing this, and we absolutely think we can turn it to our advantage.’ He maximized a document on the screen. ‘Have a look at this.’
Alex tried to concentrate. But by the time Lenni finally closed his laptop at five, she realized she had barely taken in a word he’d said over the past two hours. ‘Okay.’ Lenni stood up and stretched, then gave her a little pat on the back. ‘Good work. I’ve got to show face at Seedcamp now, but I think we have the beginnings of a game plan. And tomorrow will be the perfect opportunity to test it out. See you at the studio, five sharp?’
‘The studio?’
Lenni paused, his laptop sleeve half-zipped. ‘Yes, Alex, the studio.’
‘Okay, sorry, yes. Of course. The studio. See you there.’ She would find a way to wriggle out of whatever she was supposed to be doing tomorrow. There was no way she could afford to waste another afternoon. The thought of having to appear normal – through some interminable photoshoot or product collaboration kick-off, or whatever it was – sent a lance of panic stabbing through her chest.
Lenni walked to the doorway, then turned back. ‘You sure you’re alright?’
Alex gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, eat something. You look terrible.’ Another thin smile. ‘Must be all that country air.’
Alex watched his blurred form through the frosted glass, walking to the lift. The doors opened and closed. She sat for a moment listening to the whirr of servers, the clank of the coffee machine, the laden silence of twenty people plugged into earphones. Then she turned back to her laptop, opened the lid and clicked on the email:
Dear Miss Moore,
Greetings from Iskeull. I know you were extremely drained by the time you left us, so do let me know that you have arrived back safe and well.
We are very eager to receive news of the research you committed to undertake in London. The weather here remains very unseasonal, and continues to challenge both the equilibrium of our habitat and the morale of our staff. The sooner we can push towards completion and reallocate our resources, the better it will be for us all.
I am sure I do not need to remind you of the need for absolute discretion when it comes to our project. The work we do here must be protected from outside agendas at all costs. I look forward to hearing from you at the first possible instance.
Yours sincerely,
Director Sorcha MacBrian (on behalf of the International Board of GCAS).
Alex hit Reply:
Well, I’m back, and I suppose I should feel grateful for that, although I wouldn’t exactly say that I’m well.
Was she still raw from her overdose of Library energy? Or was the thing inside her Story getting stronger, leaching her strength from within? Either way, she felt permanently on the verge of an episode, and it was taking all her energy to appear half-normal. An effort that, from the evidence of Lenni’s comment, wasn’t working particularly well.
But the problem isn’t just physical. The thing is, I’m not really an Outsider any more, am I? I’m back Outside, but I’m also the only one Outside who knows THE BIG SECRET, and that feels, well, pretty damn horrible. But don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything. I literally couldn’t explain what the fuck I saw over there, even if I wanted to. Also, everyone would simply think I’m mad. Which, at this rate, I very soon might be.
Alex sat back and pressed her fingers against her eyes, but that only seemed to bring into sharper focus the scene she was trying to avoid summoning up. How was it that the one Memory she wanted to forget was the most vivid of all? Within seconds she could feel the warm air rushing up from beneath her feet and taste the copper in her mouth. Before she could pull back, she found herself reliving, for the hundredth time since she had struggled out of the tomb, her bad Storyline.
It had been worse than any of the others, much worse; not just rotten, but violently fetid. All the relevant Memories from 17 February had been there – Mark’s offer of promotion, the session with Chloe, waking up vomiting in bed. But although each one had diffused through her in exquisite detail, they hadn’t offered the slightest hint of how she had actually felt. It had been the same with the Memory of Dom’s job offer from 2005. She had been able to smell the side of poached salmon on her parents’ kitchen table, see the exact look of bewilderment on Dom’s face when she turned him down. But she hadn’t experienced one iota of emotion.
And again with the Memories from the awful summer of 1995. She had experienced the hours that eleven-year-old Alex had spent reading alone in her bedroom, the mysterious bug that had taken hold of her when she was supposed to go on holiday with her best friend, the arguments with her mother. She relived the early days at St Joseph’s, spent wandering the corridors alone between classes; the evenings spent hammering aimlessly away at the computer in the attic. But exactly what those crucial Memories, so carefully preserved, had meant to her remained a mystery.
What was worse, the whole ‘fear of failure’ theory hadn’t seemed to hold up. Her bad Storyline proved to be full of Memories that seemed to suggest the opposite, from the afternoon when she had set up an artisan cupcake stall in Broadway Market and sold out in a matter of hours, to the time she had smashed her first 5K. What’s more, she had found nothing about Egan MacCalum. Nothing that looked like a decision to attack him with a fatal burst of energy. There were no repressed thoughts or scenes that suggested she had somehow, somewhere, been aware of her secret ‘Story-surging’ talent. The talent that had allowed her to blast consciousness out of her Story and into the defenceless flesh of another human being. The talent she never asked for. The talent she wasn’t even sure she believed she had.
But then, after the Storyline had completed its hideous cycle, she had approached its root Memory. And oh, boy, had she finally been forced to acknowledge that Taran was right. She had known, with every shivering, prickling atom she owned, that something powerful was waiting for her in that Memory. Something powerful, and dangerous. The trigger was real, and the catch was off. But then the void had opened up faster and wider than ever before and swallowed her whole.
When she woke, cheek burning against the platform, it had taken all her remaining strength to stumble her way along the walkway and out of the door. She had no idea how long she’d lain curled in the tunnel. All she knew was that, once she had managed to stand up again, the climb back up to the tomb had seemed to take years. When she’d finally felt the bottom of the rope ladder brush her hair, she hadn’t even had the energy left to cry.
Back in Eudo’s meeting pod, Alex swung round just in time to retch strings of drool down the side of the chair. Her stomach spasmed and her skin shrank, as if it was trying to slough away from her flesh. Wave after wave of adrenaline coursed through her body. RUN, her nerves screamed, RUN RUN RUN. Except there was nowhere to run, because the monster she needed to escape was inside.
Alex sat up and wiped her mouth with the back of her shaking hand. Slowly, slowly, the hormones and white blood cells – whatever the fuck had tried to rush to her rescue – slunk uselessly away. Suddenly freezing, she unzipped her bag and pulled on her jumper, which was torn and filthy and stank of sweat and soil. She warmed her hands on the bottom of her laptop, then placed them back over the keyboard.
Honestly, Director? I’m not sure that I can trust you, because I’m pretty damn sure you don’t trust me. I told you the truth about what happened down there, I swear. I wish it had been different, I wish
I had been strong enough to get my hands – my brain? my heart? – on that root Memory. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t handle it. I passed out. I – ha – failed.
Alex blinked up at the huge silver pipes that criss-crossed the ceiling. No tears, she told herself. Nonononononononono. She turned back to the screen.
Look, I know I messed up. And I’m not going to go back on my word. I promised you that I would do everything in my power to get at that Storyline from the outside, once I was back home – and I will. Frankly, we both know I don’t have any choice. Oh, sure, every person I see, I wonder whether their life is already worse because of me. But there’s also the selfish reason, i.e. I do not want to die, which from the way I’m feeling right now seems a distinct possibility. Although now I think about it, that’s probably your preferred outcome anyway, International Covenant or no.
But you know what?
What? What did she know?
Alex stared at the cursor. The cursor blinked back. She had been moving towards a point, building to a righteous climax, but suddenly she had no idea what to say. She knew too much, she knew nothing. And every second that passed, on seven islands across the world, seven billion Stories lost a little more of their light. She realized what she wanted to type, then. She wanted to type, in bold, underlined, 72-point scarlet letters: IT’S NOT FAIR.
But then, as her mother was so fond of saying, Fairs are for clowns, darling.
Alex rose stiffly from her chair and left the meeting pod. Went to the loo, drank a pint of water, nibbled the edge of a protein ball. Sat cross-legged on the floor, closed her eyes, took fifty deep breaths and tried to summon that bastard Storyline from inside. Gave up after ten minutes and stood beside the darkening window for a while, looking through the reflection of her face at the evening lights of the city.